Breaking Brew
by sodium-amytal
Summary: Walt works alongside Gale at Gus' sleepy little coffee shop Los Frijoles Saltarines. Then Jesse shows up, and Walt's mid-life crisis looks a hell of a lot brighter now. In which coffee and cakes bring Walt and Jesse together, Mike teaches Jesse important life lessons, Gus meddles in Walt's love life, and coffee shop turf wars are an actual thing.
1. Chapter 1

"Astrophysicists estimate that the hyper-matter reactor would need about ten to the thirty-second joules of energy to destroy a planet the size of Earth," Gale's saying, shadowing Walt by the drip coffee machine. "So, since it took nineteen years to build the first Death Star—"

Walt has to stop him, for Gale's own sake; he's been blathering on about the physiology of Wookies and the aerodynamics of the Death Star for almost an hour now. It's embarrassing for everyone involved in this conversation. "Gale, please stop talking."

He looks a lot like a puppy that's just been scolded for shitting on the carpet. This is exactly why Walt doesn't make a habit out of quelling Gale's conversational tangents. He's just so damn enthusiastic; it's hard not to just let him ramble until he tires himself out.

"This isn't interesting?" Gale asks in a voice that's way too pathetic to come out of a grown man. "I thought with your knowledge of chemistry, you'd—"

"Hypothesize about its application in a fictional universe?"

Gale shrugs, like he has no idea what's wrong with that sentence at all.

Walt sighs. Why didn't he tell Gus to go screw himself when the guy practically begged Walt to come work at his coffee shop? Probably because Gus knows the way to Walt's heart is through lavish compliments and praise. Walt always knew his ego would be the death of him, but between death and having his ear talked off by Gale Boetticher, well, if he's dead he won't have to hear any more diatribes about the preemptive cancellation of _Firefly_.

Gus emerges from the back room, frowning at his phone like the gadget has disappointed him in the worst of ways. "Mike says Tuco's queue is out the door." Walt doesn't need to turn around to see that their own shop is embarrassingly empty, save for Saul Goodman seated in the cushy armchair near the front door.

"It's those damn cinnamon rolls," Saul offers without bothering to look up from his Macbook. "They're like candy-coated crack."

Walt shoots him a glare. "Sleeping with the enemy, Saul?"

"Or so I've heard," Saul says with an exaggerated shrug. "From, y'know, people. They come into my office and they say things. I can't control it."

Tuco Salamanca owns the coffee shop—and bakery—a few blocks down named Vamonos Coffee. Walt always thought that was a fucking stupid name, because it basically only advertises them as faster. Why not boast about the quality of the coffee or even advertise it as some sort of healthy alternative? Nope. Faster.

Because Los Frijoles Saltarines is _so_ much classier.

"You have a terrible personality for customer service, by the way," Saul tells Walt around a bite of blueberry muffin. "Why did Gus hire you?" Saul looks at Gus. "Why did you hire him?"

"Have you tasted the coffee?" Gus supplies with a bit of sass.

Saul makes an appraising face at his steaming vanilla latte. "Yeah, I guess I can't complain when the coffee's this good."

In a failed attempt to be humble, Walt says, "If you don't compliment the muffins, you'll hurt Gale's feelings."

Gale grins at Walt. Gus chuckles and surreptitiously nudges Walt with his elbow while Gale's watching Saul attempt to find something nice to say about his baking skills. Walt just shakes his head, because, no, Gus, he's not going to date Gale, stop trying to make this happen.

Gus disappears into his office as the bell on top of the front door chimes. Walt doesn't pay much attention—Gale's usually the one who handles orders due to Walt's questionable customer service skills—until a vaguely familiar voice calls out, "Mr. White?"

Walt turns around, greeted with the crooked smile and big blue eyes of the ultimate test of his patience: Jesse Pinkman.

The first thing Walt notices is how time has been unfairly good to Jesse; five years or so have passed since they've seen each other, and Jesse's taller, leaner, more attractive than he has any right to be, and Walt hates him a little bit for it.

Jesse smiles wider, his mouth agape. He jogs up to the counter. "No way! You're makin' coffee now?"

Gale whirls around to look at Walt. "You know him?"

"We've met," he says through his teeth. Walt's worked here a couple months, and he's had his share of once-students express surprise at his new, uh, vocation, but only Jesse would have the nerve to be smug about it.

"He taught me chemistry back in high school," Jesse supplies to an eager Gale. "Like, way back." Jesse looks at Walt again with that stupid smug grin on his face, as if he's won some sort of unspoken war between them. "Did you get fired from Wynne?"

"Are you going to order something or not?" Walt growls.

Jesse stares up at the chalkboard displaying the daily specials, immune to the slow boil of Walt's anger. "Your handwriting blows, dude," he says with a teasing sort of smile.

Gale makes a pained noise of distress.

"Your memory blows, _dude_," Walt snarks back. "That's not my handwriting."

Jesse startles up straight, his cheeks flushing red as he shoves a hand through his unruly hair and risks a glance at Gale. "Oh, shit, uh, sorry, dude, I was just messin' with—I didn't know you—sorry."

Walt resists the urge to take comfort in humiliating Jesse. "Are you going to order something or insult more of our employees?"

Jesse scowls as if sizing him up before he says, "Mint chocolate frap," in a quiet, defeated voice.

"You want to specify a size?"

"Still a hard-ass, huh?"

Walt swallows a noise in his throat from the idea of Jesse thinking about his ass.

"Sixteen," Jesse mumbles. He pays with wrinkled bills and exact change, and Gale's already roped him into a one-sided conversation about _Star Trek_ when Walt hands his drink over.

"Enjoy." Walt tries his damndest not to look directly at Jesse's stupidly blue eyes lest his brain go to places it shouldn't.

Jesse nods, looks like he wants to say something more and walks out. Walt feels the crawl of electricity over his skin. Of course he goes for the kid half his age who's ridiculously out of his league in the looks department. _Of course._

Un-fucking-believable.

#

Jesse comes back the next day with a formidable posse—Badger and Skinny Pete—as he rushes inside and up to the counter. "Yo, this is the dude I was telling you about!" Jesse raves, but he's referring to Gale this time, not Walt. "Tell him about your _Star Trek_ episode!" he says to his crew, and they waste no time with that. Gale actually looks _interested_; Walt had no idea anyone else on the planet could match Gale's enthusiasm in that department.

Jesse saunters up to the other side of the bar where Walt's trying to appear disinterested by wiping down the countertop. "So, you really work here, huh? I didn't step into an alternate universe yesterday?"

"You seem surprised." Mr. Obvious.

Jesse shrugs in a way that makes him look like the awkward teenager Walt used to know. "It's just weird. I mean, what makes a sixty-year-old dude quit his job and suddenly decide to make coffee?"

"I'm fifty," Walt says, with dignity. Because that's _so_ much better.

"Whatever."

Walt decides a little more honesty won't hurt. "It pays better."

"Don't you have, like, a degree and shit?"

"There's a fair amount of chemistry involved. The perfect mix of coffee grounds, milk, sugar, whipped cream..."

Jesse's watching him like he's trying to unearth some hidden meaning in his words. "So you ditched teaching for coffee?"

"It doesn't sound any less ridiculous when you say it out loud. Are you going to order something or did you come here to bother me and put my barista out of commission?" Gale's still chatting up a storm with Skinny Pete and Badger as he heads over to the espresso machine.

"Are you always such a dick to your customers?"

"When they're particularly obnoxious, yes."

"Why can't you be more like Gale? Y'know, nice, personable, pleasant to be around?"

Walt is having absolutely none of Jesse's shit today. "Order. Now."

Jesse sighs out a breath, like Walt's attitude is giving him an ulcer. "Double chocolate frap. Eight." Then, before Walt can even get a foot away from the counter: "And if you spit in it, I'll call health inspection on your ass." Walt rolls his eyes at the threat; as if Hank Schrader needs provocation to come in here and antagonize him.

"How can you drink these in the fall?" Walt asks, legitimately curious when he shoves Jesse's drink at him.

Jesse just shrugs, smirks in a way that's dangerously flirtatious before grabbing his drink and leaving with his friends.

Walt only just now notices that Jesse's a dollar short this time.

#

"So, who's the kid?" Gus asks on a particularly slow Thursday night as they're closing up.

"What kid?"

"The one who poses quite a challenge to your interpersonal skills."

"You mean Jesse?"

Gus nods. "He seems to like you."

"We have a tumultuous rapport," Walt says, because there's no way he's using the words "friendship" or "relationship" in relation to Jesse Pinkman. "What are you trying to say, Gus?"

Gus spreads his hands. "I'm merely making an observation."

"Like your observations with Gale?" Walt mutters.

"A blind, deaf man on the moon could make those same observations."

Gale's sweeping the floor and whistling a tune to himself, oblivious to their gossip. "He's not my type," Walt murmurs, and Gus lifts his eyebrows in that appraising way of his.

"Too eager?" Gus says, as if making notes on some sort of internal checklist. Oh God, _does_ he have a checklist?

"He's just not my type." Walt feels like that's worth repeating for some reason. "I'm classical, he's...jazz."

Gus just nods like he's appending his mental checklist. Walt really needs to find out at some point if Gus actually has a checklist. Because that's not reassuring at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Mike comes into the shop trailing cold air and displeasure, but Walt's used to the latter by now. Mike Ehrmantraut is the avatar of disgruntlement and frowns; it's his default state. "This is pathetic," he says, surveying the empty chairs and empty tables. "How is Vamonos making more money than you guys when their coffee tastes like motor oil?"

"Cinnamon rolls," Saul insists from his chair, rustling the pages of the newspaper he's reading.

Walt gives him a glare. "Don't you have actual work to be doing?"

"Not on my lunch break."

"Perhaps we should consider hiring someone with exceptional baking skills," Gus says, and Gale's face falls. Ouch.

"Perfect sweets to go with perfect coffee." Walt doesn't mean to sound like he supports this sudden dogpile on Gale's self-esteem, but his brew is flawless and there's no way he's going back to J.P. Wynne.

Gale makes a quiet whimpering sound and looks at Gus. "I—I suppose I could find someone..."

The bell over the front door dings, and Jesse slinks inside, like he's trying to be covert but failing miserably. Gus holds up a hand to cease Gale's protest while he watches Jesse approach the counter. "That may not be necessary."

"Yo, Mr. White!" Jesse's wearing a shy, embarrassed smile; it looks good on him. Walt can't help but snag his gaze on the boy—Christ, he's so _young_—for a moment before diverting his attention elsewhere.

Gus sort of shoves Walt aside so he can speak to Jesse. "Do you have a moment? I'd like to discuss something with you."

Jesse's gaze flicks from Walt to Gus. "Yeah, I guess..." Gus steps away from the counter and leads Jesse to a table near the window. Once they're seated, Jesse mutters, "Did Mr. White say anything about me comin' in and talkin' to him? 'Cause I'm sorry if I'm, like, disrupting business or whatever."

Gus shakes his head and smiles. "You're not in trouble—Jesse, is it?"

Jesse nods, a little unsure. A lifetime of disciplinary problems has led him to distrust pretty much all authority figures.

"You can call me Mr. Fring. Or Gus, I suppose, if you prefer a first-name basis." He folds his hands on the table. "I have a question for you: have you ever tried the cinnamon rolls from Vamonos Coffee?"

That's a really unorthodox opening question, Jesse thinks, but he goes with it. "Yeah, they're okay, I guess."

"Only okay?"

He tugs at the ends of his sleeves. "The dough is kinda too thick, I think, 'cause they make it with cold butter and eggs. But you don't really notice it 'cause of all the glaze."

Gus lifts an eyebrow. "You have experience with baking?"

Jesse's brow furrows, and he stares at Gus like the guy's a math problem he's trying to solve. "Yeah, sorta. I used to make cookies and brownies and shit with my aunt Ginny all the time."

"From scratch?"

"Yeah, she said it was better that way—special, y'know?" The corner of his mouth pulls into a sad smile.

"If provided the proper ingredients and tools, do you think you could make a variety of quality products?" Jesse just stares at him blankly, so Gus says, "Would you consider working here, for me, as our baker?"

Jesse's eyes go impossibly wide, because Jesse Pinkman has never been someone people take chances on. He glances around like he expects this to be some sort of prank. "You—you'd—really?"

"We're certainly in need of one," Gus explains, "and you seem to be knowledgeable. You have a rapport with Walter, which not many people are capable of." Understatement of the year. "It all depends on your performance, of course, but I'm sure you won't have any problems."

Jesse's first instinct is to be suspicious. No one just gives you a job when you really, really need one, and very few people have ever believed in Jesse like this soft-spoken stranger. He risks a glance at Walt, who makes a valiant effort to look like he's not eavesdropping on their conversation. This can't be Walt's doing, because Walt has always been a dick to Jesse, telling him to "apply himself" and "live up to his potential." But this dude clearly thinks Jesse isn't a total fuck-up.

This is way too awesome to actually be happening to him, but Jesse's going to go for it instead of cleaning this gift-horse's teeth. "Y—yeah, of course! That'd be great!"

"Are you busy today?"

"No."

"Then you can start now." Gus smiles and rises from the table, walking behind the counter and showing Jesse into the kitchen.

"Thank you, Mr. Fring! I won't let you down!"

"I know you won't." Jesse disappears into the kitchen, and Gus tosses a sly smile at Walt.

Walt shakes his head in stunned disbelief. "You didn't. Tell me you didn't."

Gus shrugs, says, "It's all about chemistry, isn't it, Mr. White?" before he joins Jesse in the kitchen.

Gale frowns. "I was gonna make a really neat 'help wanted' sign." Man, today is not Gale's day...or Walt's, really.

There is no justice in the entire world. Gus is a filthy traitor.

#

Gus doesn't tell Walt to keep an eye on Jesse, but Walt does anyway because he doesn't trust Jesse in a room with expensive heat-related equipment. Seriously, he taught the kid chemistry; Walt is almost intimately acquainted with Jesse's uncanny ability to make things explode...and, wow, okay, there's some unfortunate implications in that sentence.

During an afternoon lull, Walt stands in the kitchen doorway watching Jesse diligently gather, measure, and mix ingredients. This lasts about five minutes before Jesse sets the mixing bowl down with a dramatic sigh. "You don't have to fuckin' shadow me, Mr. White. I can do this."

"I'm only supervising."

Jesse picks the bowl back up, mutters something that sounds like, "Supervise this," and goes back to stirring.

Walt steps closer and notices how Jesse's shoulders tense up a bit, like he senses Walt's new proximity. He can smell the faint aroma of weed and cigarette smoke emanating from Jesse's hoodie. "Why did Mr. Fring hire you?" He says it in a way that undercuts any possible ability Jesse might have, like Gus was just drunk and picked the first person that walked through the door. Walt's still not entirely convinced that isn't what happened.

"'Cause he said I was knowledgeable."

"So you told him something."

"I said the cinnamon rolls at Vamonos are too tough. It's 'cause they use cold ingredients." Walt scratches his chin in thought. Impressive. Jesse knows Walt's silence is near reverent because he adds, "Yeah, I know stuff."

"Do you know why that doesn't work?"

"'Cause they don't know how to bake shit?"

"I mean, do you know why cold eggs and dairy result in a poor product?"

"Because science?" Jesse shrugs, sets the bowl down again and focuses on Walt. "Enlighten me."

Walt makes a choked little huff of air as Jesse's gaze bores into him. He wets his lips, collects his thoughts. "Room temperature ingredients will bond and form an emulsion to trap air that expands during baking. Cold ingredients don't incorporate evenly enough to bond."

Jesse spreads his hands. "Because science."

Walt frowns at the simplification.

"If you're so smart, how come you're not doin' this?" Jesse asks, pouring the brownie batter into the pan.

"I prefer to focus myself on one thing and do it well."

"Coffee?"

Walt nods.

"What's so great about coffee anyway? It tastes like ass."

"You obviously haven't tried mine."

Jesse rolls his eyes.

"How about a deal: if you try a cup of coffee I'll try one of your brownies."

"Damn right you will. My brownies are the bomb, yo!"

Walt really hopes that's just an expression, but with Jesse he can never be sure.

He Walt fixes Jesse a drink while the brownies are cooling. Jesse might like something sweet, if his past orders are any indication, so Walt makes him a pumpkin latte. He even adds extra drizzle and whip on top—let no one say Walter White isn't considerate, goddamn it.

He goes back into the kitchen and slides the mug over to Jesse, and Jesse stares at it like it might bite him. "What is it?"

"Pumpkin latte. Just try it."

Jesse seems slightly intrigued, but he plucks a brownie off of the cooling tray and hands it to Walt. "You first." He smiles, and Walt immediately knows that saying "no" is not an option. "They're awesome; my own special recipe."

Walt gives the brownie a dubious look. "I don't know if Mr. Fring went over this with you, but you do know you're not allowed to use marijuana in your baked goods, right?"

"I didn't put weed in the brownies!" Jesse insists a little too loudly.

Walt carefully pulls a piece off, chews like he's afraid it might do something to him. It's actually kind of good—okay, really good—but that has to be a fluke. "Not bad." Jesse beams, his bright blue eyes luminous with pride; Walt feels a pow in the center of his chest. He takes another bite. "What is that spice I'm tasting?"

"Chili P, yo! My secret ingredient!"

Walt stares at him like he's insane but doesn't gag or throw up, because he's never thought about putting chili powder in brownies before, but it _works_. Maybe Gus was right and Jesse has some actual, marketable talent here.

Maybe.

"Now you try," Walt says, nodding at the latte.

Jesse seems pleased with Walt's reaction, so he takes a sip. When he comes up for air he licks away the whipped cream on his upper lip, and Walt briefly thinks about licking it away for him.

"This is coffee?"

Walt nods.

"It's good," Jesse says before taking another sip.

"The best."

"I wouldn't go that far."

Walt lifts an eyebrow.

"I mean, it's still coffee." Jesse grins at Walt's expression and steals the brownie back to dunk in his latte; Walt pretends not to notice the flush that creeps up Jesse's neck or the way it makes his own blood rush faster in his veins.

#

It turns out that Jesse's actually really good at baking—insultingly good, if Walt's honest. Gus comes up with the idea of giving away a free brownie or cookie with the purchase of a coffee, which gradually earns their quaint little shop more patronage.

It's Wednesday when Hank Schrader and Steve Gomez come into the shop, and Walt can't help but feel nervous, but that's to be expected when your brother-in-law (well, ex-brother-in-law, Walt supposes) is a health inspector. Ever since Walt's divorce from Skyler three months ago, he thinks Hank just comes here in search of violations.

"Morning, Walter. Gomie says you have the best bakery in New Mexico," Hank boasts as he walks up to the counter.

"Actually, it's 'cause of the kid," Steve says. "Walter just glares at you and makes the coffee."

Jesse actually fucking _blushes_ and rubs the back of his neck as if to say "aw, shucks." "Well, I don't know about that," Jesse says, attempting modesty. "What can I get you, Mr...?"

"Hank, please. This is Gomie." Steve gives a cordial little wave. "Health inspectors." Hank flashes his badge, because he's _that_ guy.

Jesse blinks. "Wow, I bet you know all the clean places to eat, huh?"

Hank and Steve share a laugh. "Yeah, it's a non-stop party," Hank says. "How 'bout you fix me up with a medium Americano, black, and one of those spicy brownies."

Steve opts for a white chocolate mocha and two dark chocolate peppermint cookies. Walt works on the coffees while Jesse doles out the sugar-laden sweets. Jesse watches Hank's reaction to the brownie. "It's good, huh?"

Hank nods. "Hell yeah. You got a gift, kid. You ought'a start chargin' for it."

Jesse blushes again, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "That's, uh, that's up to my boss, but thanks."

Walt tries not to stare at the way Jesse's face flushes scarlet, but he's really bad at it.

Around mid-afternoon, Jesse's straightening up the kitchen after making a fresh batch of brownies, and Gale strolls in through the front door. Walt looks up from the crossword puzzle he's finishing. "Gale? I thought you were off today."

"Just a late shift. Jesse's leaving now; I'm covering for him."

This is news to Walt. Gale slips behind the counter and pulls on his apron, just as Jesse emerges from the kitchen. "Hey, Gale, thanks, I owe you one."

"It's no problem," Gale says, and it's hardly a secret that he agreed to cover this shift so he could spend more time with Walt; the thirst is unquenchable.

"I just took the brownies out. There should be enough 'til close," Jesse says. "Thanks again, dude!"

"Where are you going?" Walt asks, hoping he sounds concerned instead of suspicious.

"I got plans."

"Smoking marijuana, eating Cheetos, and masturbating do not constitute plans in my book."

"Screw you, alright? Why do you even care? Gale and Mr. Fring aren't giving me shit for having other stuff going on in my life." Jesse gives him a significant, frustrated look before he's out the door.

#

Friday night marks the first time Walt orgasms thinking about Jesse. It's not like he's _proud_ of this in any way, but he remembers it because earlier at the café Jesse slipped on the slick, newly-mopped shop floor and careened face-first into Walt. Walt caught his fall, but the firm line of Jesse's body molded to Walt's own. Just a small, minute moment of contact that poured gasoline on the fire Walt's been trying to choke.

It's easy for him to shove his feelings into some internal closet when Jesse smirks at him or grins or teases him. Walt finds it's not as easy when actual physical contact is involved, because that's a tangible, irrevocable memory burned into his nerves.

So when he gets back to his apartment that night, electricity humming in his blood, he steps into the shower and tugs his lonely, swollen dick while the hot needles of water beat down on him. He thinks about Jesse kneeling at his feet, greedily sucking his cock, and Walt thrusts into his fist, because that's an image that needs to be savored. He imagines what Jesse might sound like, if he'd hum around his dick or stay quiet. He wonders if Jesse would swallow or end up with jizz smeared over his mouth and splattered in his hair. Fuck, that should not turn him on as much as it does, and the image of Jesse licking Walt's cum from his lips is what does Walt in, his body shuddering as he comes undone.

He breathes in shaky spurts, opens his eyes to see the evidence of his lust splattered on the tile. He stays there until the water runs cold and wonders when his life became such a goddamn train wreck.

Not his proudest moment, really.


	3. Chapter 3

On Saturday, Walt shows up to the quaint little home he once shared with Skyler and Walter Junior. He used to run into Skyler all the time right after the divorce, a constant barrage of awkward conversations and greetings. Not so much anymore. Skyler avoids Walt's usual haunts, doesn't come to the coffee shop anymore to gloat or take snide jabs at his new profession. Walt doesn't know if her absence soothes or infuriates him.

Skyler doesn't look particularly thrilled to see him when she opens the door, but she plasters on a fake smile anyway. "Walt."

He gives her an acknowledging head nod. "Junior around?"

Skyler glances back inside the house for a moment. "He's going to the movies with Louis."

"On a Saturday?"

"He's a teenager, he doesn't have school on the weekends..." Skyler makes a gesture as if to say, "Figure it out."

Saturdays were once Walt's designated time with Junior. He hopes the baby will at least give him a chance before she decides she wants nothing to do with him.

Junior comes down the hallway and sees Walt, and his face goes weirdly innocent for a second before settling on a weak smile. "Hey, Dad."

Walt smiles back. "Hey, you, uh, you wanna do something? Catch a movie? Go out for pizza?"

"Oh, s—sorry, Dad, I already made plans with Louis." Junior glances away, sheepish, and Walt swallows down the regret.

"That's okay. Maybe next time, huh?"

"Yeah, sure." Walt hears the sound of tires crunching on gravel. Junior moves closer, peering around Walt. "That's my ride. Bye, Dad."

"Be safe," Skyler says before giving him a kiss goodbye. Junior makes a face but allows her this.

Walt lets him pass, watches him climb into the passenger seat of Louis' shiny new car and feels a pang. He reminds himself that Junior is a teenager and would obviously rather spend time with his peers than his parents. But Junior's avoidance doesn't feel like normal teen behavior, and, no, Walt doesn't have any actual proof of that, he just _knows_.

Or maybe it's his own guilty conscience railing against him from the inside.

Skyler gives Walt a meaningful look once the car's pulled out of the driveway. "You might as well come in."

The house is all kinds of wrong now, a funhouse mirror reflection of what it used to be. He doesn't know why he keeps coming back. He owns a damn phone; he could just call when he wants to talk or arrange a meeting at the café. But it's become some sort of penance for him to walk around in the shell of his former home and see the damage he's done, like a masochistic urge to punish himself.

Skyler makes an effort to be cordial. "Marie helped me fix up the nursery. You want to see?"

Walt nods, and Skyler leads him down the hall to show off the newly-decorated quarters. The wallpaper is a pastel yellow, peppered with drawings of cartoon birds. A crib sits near the window, filled with soft blankets and stuffed animals. Splashes of pink adorn the room in the form of pillows, toys, and furniture. "It looks great, Sky."

Skyler gives him a tight, managed smile and tips her head down. Her hand caresses the swell of her growing baby belly. Walt's not going to say anything about feeling left out of his daughter's life before she's even born; he dug his own grave here. He could have stayed and been involved, but he chose to be a walking mid-life crisis and leave it all behind in search of something better. His pride won't let him admit he hasn't found it yet, or that maybe it was here with Skyler and Junior and Holly all along.

"I bet you were expecting more purple, huh?" Skyler says, trying humor. "I made some executive decisions."

"You have good judgement."

Skyler makes a face, because that's an obvious suck-up line, but she doesn't push it. Instead she says, "Somebody has to."

Walt's always loved her sense of humor.

"Are you still peddling coffee or have you come to your senses?"

"Coffee is profitable," Walt says, defensive. "Besides, Gus needs me."

Skyler scoffs. "You've never been content with being a cog in someone else's machine, Walter."

Walt thinks about arguing that he's not a cog, more like the machine, but decides against it. There's nothing good down that road. He changes the subject with, "What's going on with Junior?"

"Nothing."

"So his avoiding me is just sheer coincidence?"

"He's not avoiding you," Skyler sighs out, like the very idea is ridiculous.

"He knows Saturdays are our time together."

"What do you expect? He's fifteen. Let him have a social life."

"Is he upset with me? Has he said anything to you?"

Skyler laughs.

"Point taken."

"I'm sure he's a little confused and upset about the divorce, but that's normal. He'll come around. Just give him time. He's dealing with a lot right now."

Walt wonders if that's true and if, maybe, she's speaking about herself more so than Junior.

#

Jesse's in the kitchen baking up the final batch of sweets to last until closing time on Monday evening. He's been working here about a week and hasn't managed to fuck up too badly yet, which is good, because Jesse feels like he's one wrong move away from getting canned.

He's too focused on decorating the cookies that he doesn't notice Walt looming sinisterly in the doorway. The sound of Walt's voice against the silence startles him. "Leaf cookies?"

"Y—yeah, I thought they go with, y'know, the fall," Jesse says lamely. Walt comes closer, plucks a cookie off of the tray. "Yeah, no, don't ask or anything, just take. I'm all about the free samples here." Clearly Walt was not properly socialized as a child.

"A little chewy," Walt comments around a mouthful of delicious cookie.

"Well, I'm not exactly makin' peanut brittle."

"You could achieve a fluffier texture by using cold chunks of butter instead of melting it."

Jesse rolls his eyes. "Okay, thanks, Dad. Why don't you stick to coffee and I'll do the baking?"

Walt ignores Jesse's perfectly reasonable argument and says, "Melted butter causes the dough to spread faster and creates smaller air pockets when the water converts to gas." Jesse sighs like Walt's mere existence is making his life miserable. "Cold butter creates larger holes for a lighter, cakier texture."

"You're trying to bore me to death, aren't you?"

"I'm trying to teach you something useful."

"You stopped bein' my teacher years ago, Mr. White. Maybe you didn't get the memo—or whatever you people use."

Walt looks bewildered. "'You people'?"

"Old people. Like, do you even know how to use email? Or do you still communicate through smoke signals?" Walt's mouth does an angry pinching thing, but there's a hint of sadness to it that makes Jesse back off. "I'm just fucking with you, man. The year starts with a two—everybody knows how to use a computer."

Walt says nothing for a moment, then, "You should use baking powder; it produces carbon dioxide twice—when it's mixed and when it's heated."

_Jesus_.

"God, you just have to suck the fun out of everything, don't you?"

"Chemistry is fun," Walt says with an uncalled-for amount of offense.

"I got a high school experience that says otherwise."

"Because you don't apply yourself."

Jesse groans in frustration. The present tense of that sentence digs under his skin, because he's trying, damn it, he's trying so fucking hard, and he's sick of getting it thrown back in his face like it's nothing. He turns to glower at Walt. "Yo, when are you gonna stop seeing me as this dumb, fuck-up kid you used to know? People change." Jesse can't formulate his anger into the proper words, so he gives up and goes back to icing the cookies.

Walt is quiet for a long moment that stretches on into awkward territory. Jesse thinks about turning around to see if Walt's actually gone, since Walt has a creepy habit of slinking in and out of places. But then Jesse hears his voice: "Would you like me to teach you how to make coffee? Maybe sometime after hours?"

Jesse almost rolls his eyes and says no, but he knows this is Walt's weird, albeit shitty way of apologizing, so he's not going to quash the moment by being a dick. "You'd let me in on your super-secret brew?"

"I'm feeling generous," Walt says with an actual, real smile, which is new and disturbing and alternate-universe weird, but Jesse's going to go with it and see where this takes them. "How about tonight?"

#

"People in prison get better coffee than this," Walt growls at Jesse, tossing the remaning contents of his mug into the sink.

Jesse slaps a hand on the countertop. "Oh, like you would know?" Seriously, fuck Walt and everything about him.

"I wouldn't serve this to my worst enemy." Walt reaches for the coffee pot. "This should be studied as some sort of corrosive acid."

"Yeah, lay it on, Mr. White. I feel so much better about myself. Thanks for that. Way to be the worst teacher ever."

Walt shakes his head as he pours the coffee out, like this is just one more of the many times Jesse's disappointed him. "How can you bake so well yet make a cup of coffee this"—he searches for the word—"awful?"

"I don't get you. One minute you're being nice, and the next you're sweatin' me 'cause I can't make perfect coffee on my first try. Jesus, gimme a break!"

Walt fixes him with a look. "Is that how you're going to go through life: just demanding slack from everyone else without putting in any effort to better yourself?"

"I didn't say I wasn't gonna try," Jesse bites back through his teeth, snatching the empty coffee pot out of Walt's hands. "How 'bout you 'better yourself' by not being such a dick?"

From the expression he's wearing, Walt didn't even think that was an option. Jesse finds that terrifying, because he can't be the only person who thinks Walt's a little, uh, abrasive. Apparently Walt just walks away from every social interaction thinking the other guy is the problem. But his mouth's gone soft, so maybe he's going to make an effort to turn their antagonistic friendship into something that doesn't make Jesse want to set himself on fire.

Jesse attempts to ignore Walt, instead focusing on brewing up a new batch of coffee, but Walt sighs out and says, "You're right. I'm sorry."

Jesse almost lets the measuring cup fall out of his hands. "Did you just apologize to me? Like, seriously?" It's a goddamn miracle.

"Yes, and now I'm regretting it," Walt grumbles, shoving the bag of sugar at him and frowning all the while, like it hurts him to show any emotions that aren't sour.

"Man, I wish you would'a wrote it down or something so I could look at it and remind myself you can be human sometimes."

"Jesse."

"But I'm gonna take what I can get, 'cause this is a big step for you." He gives Walt a sardonic smile and measures out the sugar.

#

Jesse tosses and turns that night when he tries to sleep, roused intermittently throughout the night—sometimes sweating, sometimes freezing. Whenever he does drift off long enough to qualify as sleep it's fitful, plagued with hazy images and memories that wake him with physical jerks. His dreams come in flashes, flickers of J.P. Wynne's chemistry lab, dimly-lit diners, and the parched concrete of the sun-dried Albuquerque streets. Jesse dreams about warm hands on both sides of his face, pulling his clothes off, running over his hips and jerking him off, but the images don't stay for very long, just long enough to leave him sexually frustrated.

As his brain tumbles deeper into the rabbit hole of unconsciousness, the images stay a little longer, and suddenly he's in a dark alley somewhere being manhandled in a sexy way. He can't make out a face, but he's got hands all over him at this point, so facial recognition isn't the priority right now. Then he's being kissed, hard and rough and wet, and he feels the scrape and scratch of sandpaper against his mouth, over the line of his jaw and down his throat. A voice growls out his name, and in a split second Jesse wrenches upright with a shout and nearly falls out of his bed.

"Jesus..." He's shaking, legs bound with tangled sheets. His heart's throbbing in his ears, and he can't remember the last time he woke up with a cock this hard. With groggy eyes, he glances at the clock on the night table: five-thirty in the morning. He grinds the heel of his hand over his dick, testing it to see if he can just go back to sleep, and, nope, not happening. Jesse sighs, flops back on the mattress, and it only takes a couple squeezes before he's coming hard in his shorts and biting down on needy moans.

He rides out the aftershocks, dragging a pillow across his face with his free hand. He's never been so embarrassed about an orgasm before in his entire life, because none of his previous orgasms were dredged up by the thought of Walt kissing and touching him.

His subconscious is a fucking douchebag.


	4. Chapter 4

Jesse spends Tuesday night brewing after hours with Walt, mostly because Walt seems to be making a concentrated effort at not being an asshole. Jesse oversteamed a batch, and Walt only yelled at him _once_. That's an improvement.

Wednesday evening finds the café in a quiet lull. Mike's sitting by the window working on a crossword puzzle while Walt brews up a fresh pot. Jesse's loitering by the drip coffee machine, watching him work.

"Pop quiz: name the four fundamentals of a proper brew," Walt quizzes him.

Jesse rolls his eyes but does as he's told. "Proportions, grind, water, and coffee."

Walt nods like Jesse's passed some sort of test. "Good. Do you remember the ratio?"

"Uh, two tablespoons of grounds..." He pushes a hand through his hair, thinks for a moment. "And six ounces of water?"

An easy smile spreads on his face. "You _were_ paying attention."

"Yeah, see, I'm not a total idiot."

Walt considers that, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Maybe only a quarter idiot."

Jesse huffs, grumbles, "Dick," but there's no heat to it.

"You call me that a lot. Makes me wonder where your head is."

Jesse stiffens like he's been hit with a cattle prod. There is absolutely _no_ way Walt could know, right? Jesse hasn't made any grand overtures of attraction; if merely tolerating Walt's existence counts as some sort of admission, then, okay, he's probably guilty. But it's not like he's said anything remotely indicative that he's _sortamaybekinda_ attracted to this stupid asshole. Jesse scrubs a hand over his face. "Oh, God, don't tell me you're turning into Mrs. Woodsend. Remember her? The algebra teacher who thought you were gay if you drew dicks on the back of your paper?"

Walt gives him a look that communicates "how the fuck would I know that?" very well.

"Okay, maybe that's not something you have hands-on experience with," Jesse says, and Walt snickers. "Shut up! What are you, like, twelve? Oh my God, you are the actual worst."

Walt just shakes his head with a small smile, and no one should look that amused when they hate you. Does this mean Walt _doesn't_ hate Jesse? Because that's the kind of smile that says, "I could get used to this."

Walt opens his mouth to say something else, stops, reaches into his pants' pocket and withdraws a buzzing cell phone. He flips it open, frowns at the screen. "Damn it, Gus."

"What?"

Walt doesn't answer, just leaves his phone on the counter before disappearing into the storeroom. Jesse looks at the phone, looks through the swinging doors of the storeroom, then back at the phone. The length of one heartbeat passes before Jesse's grabbing the phone and typing his own number into the address book. He sends himself a quick text message, feels the buzz in his hoodie pocket. He's crafting a text to Walt on his own phone by the time Walt comes out.

"What'd Gus want?" Jesse asks, feigning casual.

"He's at our supplier and wants to know how many jugs of milk we have," Walt says, typing a response to Gus.

"Cool."

Walt barely manages to get his phone back in his pocket before it buzzes again. "If this is Gus just saying 'ok' I'm going to kill him," he grumbles. His distaste looks physically painful when he glances at Jesse. "Why do I have your number?"

Jesse grins. "Next time don't leave your phone unsupervised. I could'a sent dick pics to everyone in your contacts."

Walt blanches. "And somehow this is the more preferable option?" he mutters, loud enough for Jesse to hear. But he doesn't delete the message, just snaps the phone shut and shoves it back into his pocket.

Gale pushes the front door open. "Oh, Jesse! Good, you're still here!"

A light clicks on in Jesse's head. "Shit, I gotta bounce!" Walt gives him a curious look, and Jesse's rushing from behind the counter.

Gale stops him for a moment. "Wait, I brought your book!" He hands Jesse a dog-eared and worn copy of _Star Trek & Philosophy_ that Jesse had asked for, mostly for Badger's sake, because Badger loves that nerdy shit.

"Thanks, man. You're the best." Gale is an actual blessing. Jesse claps him on the shoulder and heads out the door into the bite of fall.

He's unlocking his car when he hears footsteps behind him. "Hey, kid," Mike says softly.

"Yo."

"You all right?"

"Just peachy."

Mike takes the sarcasm in stride and approaches him. Mike's always had the gentle grandfather vibe going for him, tempting Jesse to spill his secrets. "If you got something going on, you know you can talk to me, right?"

Jesse shrugs as he opens the driver's door. "I don't have anything to tell you."

"I just notice you leave at a very specific time on very specific days." Mike spreads his hands. "Maybe you got something I can help you with."

"Maybe I don't," Jesse snaps, gets in the car. "And if I do, I can handle it."

"Never said you couldn't."

Jesse fixes his gaze on Mike. "What're you tryin' to say?"

Mike's meaningfully quiet for a moment, then: "You go to meetings, don't you?" The words strike Jesse square in the chest. "For drug addiction. Recovery."

Jesse tightens his fists on the wheel. He can't help but feel the burn of anger even though Mike's only here to help. Anger that Mike unearthed this dark secret. Anger at himself for not hiding it better. Jesse exhales in a long, slow gust of breath. "How did you know?"

"I used to be a beat cop a long time ago. I know what a recovering addict looks like. I've run the gamut, been knee-deep in it."

Jesse stares at him in disbelief. "You...?"

"Alcohol." Mike reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a bottle cap. "The last bottle I ever drank, thirty years ago." He says it simply, but there's history behind it, Jesse can tell. "Like I said, if you ever need to talk, I'm here." Mike turns away and crosses the parking lot.

Jesse watches Mike disappear inside the café before he starts the car.

#

"I'm telling you, man! Open up your eyes!"

"You are so full of shit!"

"Why else would Willy Wonka be so protective of his secret formula? Because his candy is made from children!"

Jesse sighs, drops his head back against the sofa while Badger and Skinny Pete argue back and forth on why Wonka's factory allows for so many candy-related injuries. They're gathered in Jesse's living room as the sun streams in through the curtains. Combo's sitting beside Jesse munching down some Doritos.

"There's no reason for that pipe in the chocolate river to be large enough to suck a fat kid through!" Badger insists.

"Can we talk about something that isn't fucking stupid?" Jesse shouts over Skinny Pete's rebuttal.

The two go silent for a moment, glancing at each other until Badger says, "You, uh, wanna smoke some crystal?"

Skinny Pete socks him in the arm. "Jesse's in recovery, dumbass!"

Jesse huffs a laugh at his friend's defense. "It's cool, man. No sweat." He's only been clean for about a month, and he wishes his friends wouldn't talk about it so casually around him, but if they stop hanging out with him...

"You still got that 'teenth?" Badger asks quietly.

"You lookin' to buy?"

Badger shrugs, does his best to look sympathetic. "Help a brother out?"

Jesse pinches the bridge of his nose. "Jesus, what happened to your job?"

"They found another sign guy!" Badger protests, and Jesse rolls his eyes. "No, this dude was, like, a professional. His sign game? Out of this world."

"We should just bounce," Combo says, standing up to leave and taking the bag of chips with him. "Jesse's been good a month; don't push him, y'know?"

Jesse leaps up from his seat. "N—no, wait, c'mon, you guys! I'm good, I swear! I can watch. Hell, I could probably cook. I just can't use."

Skinny Pete shakes his head. "Nah, man, we don't wanna make you fall off the wagon or nothin'." He waves a hand and turns to leave just as a knock sounds on the front door.

"I got it. Just sit tight for a sec." Jesse rushes to the door, pulls it open to see the ever-so delighted faces of his parents. "Mom...Dad. 'Sup?"

Mrs. Pinkman gives a tight nod. "Jesse." Mr. Pinkman waves cordially. "Oh, I see you have guests." Her mouth's curled into a managed frown.

"Yeah, you remember my friends: Badger, Combo, Skinny." They each give various forms of head nods and acknowledging hand gestures.

"Can we speak with you privately for a moment, Jesse?" Mr. Pinkman asks.

"Yeah, sure." Jesse lets them inside, turns to his friends. "Yo, just a sec, don't go anywhere." Jesse steps into the kitchen for some privacy. "So, what's goin' on? You guys never stop by."

Mr. and Mrs. Pinkman exchange glances, then Mrs. Pinkman clears her throat and says, "We're selling the house."

Jesse's eyes go wide. "You're moving? Where?"

Mr. Pinkman sighs, and Jesse realizes he's misunderstood. "Not _our_ house, Jesse."

It takes him a moment or two before he can speak. "This place? You're selling my place?"

"Your aunt's house," Mrs. Pinkman corrects. "Or, technically, ours. We still own it."

Jesse wants to argue but can't find the proper words.

"I suffered a pay cut at work," Mr. Pinkman explains. "We need the extra money to pay for the mortgage and Jake's tuition and music lessons and—"

"So you're gonna kick me out on the street?" Jesse snaps. "Are you even gonna let me crash at your place 'til I find somewhere to stay?"

Mr. Pinkman takes a deep breath, stares at the kitchen island between them. "I don't think that's a very good idea, not with your _history_."

"I'm thirty days clean, yo!" Jesse shouts, the words exploding out of him. "This is bullshit! You can't just kick me out of my own house!"

"It's not your house, Jesse," Mrs. Pinkman reminds him, slowly and precisely. "We own the property, and as the owners we can legally do as we see fit."

"Oh, 'legally?' What about ethically? You think it's ethically okay to throw your own kid out with nowhere to stay?"

"You're an adult. You have a job," Mr. Pinkman reminds him. "You can put a roof over your head."

"I work at a coffee shop! I'm not pullin' in six figures a year!"

Mr. Pinkman gets _the look_, the look that says "if you'd tried harder in school you would be," the look Jesse fucking _hates_. "You had your chances," he says, and Jesse's whole body goes numb. "You squandered them, wasted them for twenty-five years. Now it's Jake's turn, and I'll be damned if he misses out on opportunities because of you."

Jesse opens his mouth to speak but finds he has no argument that doesn't sound like a plea. Horror trickles through his veins like acid. "Don't."

Mrs. Pinkman shakes her head, and Jesse can see that it's too late; they've made up their minds. "I'm sorry, Jesse."

Jesse wants to bite back with something scathing, but he can't get the words to leave his mouth. It feels like there's something stuck in his throat. He just shakes his head, trying to dislodge what they've just told him.

"You have one week," Mr. Pinkman says, his voice like a slamming door.

Jesse struggles to find a way out of this nightmare, any sort of loophole he can exploit to make his parents reconsider—anything at all—but they're already stalking out of the kitchen and through the living room. "Wait!" he chokes out, trying to follow them on shaky legs.

They turn to face him, to hear whatever rebuttal he's prepared, but Jesse has nothing, absolutely nothing to argue with, only the sheer devastation etched on his face.

His parents shut the door behind them.

Combo, Skinny Pete, and Badger stare at Jesse, imploring him to go into detail, as if they weren't eavesdropping on the conversation anyway. Jesse shuts his eyes, defeated, broken, and alone. He doesn't want to think about how he's going to manage finding a decent place to stay within a week or if he can convince his parents to change their minds. He doesn't want to think about what life will be like for him out on the streets.

He doesn't want to think about anything at all.

In an almost imperceptible voice, he says, "You guys still want that 'teenth?"


	5. Chapter 5

The sharp sound of curtains being shoved back wakes Jesse up in a slow, unpleasant drag. He feels like he's been miserably ill for God knows how long. He can't remember where he is or what day it is; his brain is like a Jenga puzzle with most of the pieces missing. He blinks his eyes open, squints at the sudden white glaze of sunlight.

A vaguely human-shaped shadow steps over him. "You awake, kid?"

It takes a moment to recognize the voice. "Mike?" His voice crackles like paper in his throat.

"You had us worried." Mike shoves aside some of the clutter on the coffee table and sits. "You weren't answering your phone. Gus sent me to make sure you were alright."

Jesse ensures his breathing's steady before he attempts to right himself. Mike takes hold of his shoulders to help him remain vertical. Jesse rubs the blurriness from his eyes, sees the absolute mess he's made of the living room, sees the pipe on the table, and, oh, _fuck_.

"Shit." Jesse falls back against the couch, covers his face with his hands. "Shit." He curls into himself, hoping he might disappear. "I was doing so good," he whimpers.

Mike lays a hand on his arm. "Hey, it's okay. Everybody falls off the wagon sometime. Just pick yourself up and try again."

Jesse makes a whining sound into a pillow, because this is just more proof that his parents are right and he's a hopeless fuck-up with no future.

"C'mon, kid, don't beat yourself up over it," Mike says, patting his shoulder like a consoling dad after a sub-par softball game. "This isn't a one-shot deal. You get to keep trying."

Jesse wonders about that.

Mike's quiet for a moment, then: "I know you weren't born knowing how to bake, and obviously you didn't quit when things got tough."

Why don't his own parents believe in him the way this old dude he's only known, like, two weeks does? Jesse loses himself down that train of thought, and he doesn't get off of it until Mike says, "Why don't you clean yourself up, and I'll fix you something to eat?"

Jesse decides to take him up on that, although he's not sure if Mike's here out of some sort of obligation or genuine desire to help him. It seems like the latter, but Gus probably wants to ensure none of his staff are dead or otherwise incapable of making delicious baked goods. Sure, he's got other employees—Jesse's briefly met Victor, the creepily-quiet barista, and Andrea, the young mother who works as a baker on Jesse's off days—but the dude's gotta protect his investments

Jesse goes into the bathroom while Mike heads for the kitchen. He splashes some water on his face. His mouth is dry and dessicated, and he drinks out of the faucet until he remembers he needs to breathe.

When he gets into the kitchen, Mike's already got bread, butter, cheese, and a pan set out on the counter. "You're in luck," Mike says, "I'm the best grilled cheese chef—according to my granddaughter."

"You have a granddaughter?" Jesse isn't sure why that seems so weird.

"You sound surprised."

"I just..." He shrugs. "I dunno. How come you've never brought her to the shop?"

Mike tilts his head in consideration. "Yeah, I ought'a bring her around sometime." He places the butter in the pan.

"You haven't been taking her to Vamonos, have you?"

Mike doesn't answer.

"You fucking traitor."

"The boss wants me to keep an eye on the competition," Mike says in his defense. "I might as well spend some time with Kaylee while I'm on the clock."

Jesse is unmoved.

Mike chuckles. "I'll make you a deal: for every week you stay clean I'll bring her in."

Jesse smiles. "Alright." Now he's got something to look forward to, a reason to keep his head above water when everything wants to drown him. He toys with an empty beer bottle on the kitchen island. "So, is Mr. Fring pissed at me or what?"

"Pissed? No, he's concerned. You weren't answering your phone." Mike slaps the bread into the pan. "Not everybody's out to get you, Jesse. Most people are decent and look out for each other."

Jesse thinks about that as he goes back upstairs to retrieve his cell phone. It's discarded on the end table at the foot of his bed amongst under magazines and old newspapers. He scrolls through his list of missed calls, but one name in particular strikes him in a peculiar way: Mr. White. Walt cared enough to use his newfound privilege of having Jesse's number by checking on him—three times, even. Maybe Walt felt that Jesse might answer if his name showed up on the caller ID.

A smile tugs at his mouth, and Jesse gives in to it.

They eat together in the living room, slumped on the couch in a way that's relaxed and casual. Jesse doesn't say much, just thinks about all the time he's spent in this house and how he doesn't want to lose it, doesn't want to lose any more of her. "My parents are selling this place," he finally says, and it hangs in the air in a way that makes Jesse want to take it back, like keeping it inside will stop it from happening.

"I thought this was your house."

"Not officially or, like, legally. It's my aunt's place, but the property's in their name."

Mike nods.

"That's why I...y'know, last night," Jesse explains, although Mike probably already figured that out. He doesn't know why he's saying these things; there's a small part of him that thinks talking about it might help, and Mike is understanding enough not to use it against him. "I don't know what to do. It's not fair. I mean, I was the one who took care of Aunt Ginny when she got sick. My mom didn't do shit."

"Why are they selling?"

"'Cause they need the money, and they probably think I'm still smoking crystal." Jesse grits his teeth. "And I wasn't until—" He drags a hand down his face. "Goddamn it."

"Why would they think that?"

Jesse sighs out in aggravation. "Why the hell wouldn't they? They barely even give a shit that I'm"—Jesse catches his mistake—"was in recovery for a month. Like no matter what I do I'll never be good enough."

Mike's mouth is a grumpy line. He guides Jesse down another avenue. "Where'd you get it?"

Jesse knows what he means. "I still had some. But I wasn't using it, I swear to God! I had the stuff, like, buried in my bottom drawer...just in case. Just, like, knowing I had it there made coming off of it easier, and if I needed some quick cash I was gonna sell it." He thumps his head against the back of the couch. "Shit, I should've just sold it. Why didn't I sell it?"

"What did I say about beating yourself up?"

"Don't do it?"

Mike nods sagely. "You gotta fight for yourself, kid. But it always helps to have somebody in your corner." He gives Jesse a meaningful look. "How 'bout I sponsor you, keep you on track with your meetings? It's noble, but you don't have to do this alone."

He doesn't even need to think about it. "Y—yeah, that sounds—that sounds good. Thanks." Jesse's mouth quirks into a smile. "You're, like, my Obi-Wan Kenobi, aren't you?" He kind of hates that this is his go-to metaphor.

Mike laughs. "I would've gone with the Mr. Miyagi to your Daniel-san."

Jesse grins, then: "No, wait, that sucks because the mentor dude always dies, like, half-way through the movie."

"So, if your life is a movie, how do you want it to end?"

"Hopefully not with my friends dead." Jesse realizes that was likely a rhetorical question, but he tends to speak before he thinks. He does, however, find that to be a pretty good answer regardless.

"Yeah, if we could all be so lucky."

#

When Jesse shows up at the café the next morning, Walt thinks he's witnessing the beginning of an awful zombie movie. Jesse looks dead on his feet, and Walt wants to reach out and hold him. Jesse rubs his eyes, grabs his apron from behind the counter and ties it with unsteady hands. "'Sup, Mr. White."

Walt watches him like he might shatter into glass at any given moment. "You okay, Jesse? What happened yesterday? Where were you?"

"What is this, twenty questions? Jesus."

"Excuse me for expressing concern," Walt snaps.

"Concern." Jesse scoffs. "That's a good one." He drags himself into the kitchen. Walt follows him.

"Whether you believe it or not, I do care for you, Jesse." Walt's trying to sound concerned, but he misses by a long shot. He says it like he's confessing to a murder.

"Why, 'cause if I'm gone you won't have anybody to be a dick to? Gale's so far up your ass he might as well set up camp; no way he's gonna do anything to piss you off."

Christ, Jesse can see it too? Walt makes a face. "That's a...really unpleasant way to phrase that." Jesse rolls his eyes and turns away, digging his recipe book out of its drawer and flipping through the pages. "But that's not the—Jesse, I called you three times yesterday and you didn't answer. I thought something horrible happened to you." Walt makes concern sound like frustration, and he doesn't know why he always sounds like he's angry at Jesse.

"Well, don't worry, Mr. White, 'cause it's not a big deal. My parents are just kicking me out of my house 'cause I'm a pathetic junkie just like you always thought I was," Jesse says through his teeth.

Any anger left in Walt falls away like it's been cut out of him. "How could you ever think I see you that way?" It tumbles out of his mouth before Walt can stop it; Jesse's projecting his own self-loathing here, but Walt's hurt feelings somehow find a way to take precedence. He sighs out, stares at the line of Jesse's back. "Jesse...I'm sorry." He sounds like he really means it, like he's sorry for every shit hand Jesse's been dealt in his life. "Really, I...I wish I could make things better for you."

Jesse breathes slow and quiet for a moment before he turns and throws his arms around Walt's neck, burying his face in Walt's shoulder. Walt goes still before hugging him tight, and he can feel the tremor in Jesse's shoulders. Jesse doesn't cry or sniffle, but Walt keeps his arms around him. There's a strange sort of familiarity to it, something easy and comforting, and Walt doesn't know how much time passes there with his arms wrapped around Jesse's narrow waist until Jesse drags in a long inhale of breath and pulls away.

"Thanks," he says softly, with a hint of apology—and even eye contact—before he turns around to get back to work.

They don't talk about it again.

#

Saul's lounging near the window when Jesse brings him his caramel macchiato later that afternoon. "Since when do you get your drinks brought to you?" Jesse snaps.

"Since I decided to do you a favor and get your house back." Saul takes a sip, not bothering to glance up from his laptop screen.

"What?"

Saul gives him a curious look. "Your house? Y'know, your crib, your _casa_, your place of residence that's currently F.U.B.A.R courtesy of your parents? Are you following me or do I need to start using flashcards? C'mon."

Jesse briefly considers snatching Saul's drink back, because being an asshole should disqualify you from enjoying delicious beverages. "Who told you?"

"A little birdie. Does it matter? I'm trying to do something nice for you, kid. Least you could do is be a little more appreciative. In case you didn't hear, I'm not too big on charity."

Jesse sighs and falls into the seat across from him. He really hopes Walt was the informant, if only because Jesse needs more concrete evidence for his theory that Walt has a secret heart of gold underneath the hard exterior. "Alright, so how are you gonna do this?"

"My personal favorite technique has always been persuasion. I know a guy who knows a guy who knows another guy who can dig up some information on dear old Mom and Dad."

Jesse's brow furrows. "So...blackmail?"

Saul makes a face. "I really prefer the term 'persuasion.' It sounds so much nicer."

"Okay, _persuasion_. And you think this is gonna work because...?" Jesse spreads his hands.

"Look, everybody's got secrets: you, me, even Mr. Sunshine himself over there." Saul tips his chin in the direction of the counter, and Jesse turns to see Walt tending to the espresso machine. "Would you want any interested parties to know yours?"

Jesse's going to go with a resounding "hell no," considering one of his biggest secrets happens to involve Walt's dick.

"That's the spirit." Saul takes another sip, leans back in his chair. "If you can pass a drug test, we've got a pretty solid chance of keeping a roof over your head."

Jesse nods and rubs the back of his neck. "Do I, uh, do I owe you anything?"

"Just your undying gratitude and free coffee." Jesse lifts an eyebrow. "Money? No, don't worry. It's all taken care of."

Jesse realizes now that it was Mike who informed Saul of his predicament; Walt cares about Jesse, but not when it's an inconvenience to him. "Cool, thanks, man. Just...let me know."

#

Walt leans against the shower tile, chest heaving after another orgasm courtesy of his fucked-up fantasies involving Jesse. This is getting ridiculous; he can't even remember the last time he had sex this enjoyable. Jesse has officially ruined him forever without even touching his penis.

He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. A few clumps come loose, matted together between his fingers. His breath catches in his throat. He tries again and ends up with more loose hairs in his hand. The shower spray rains down and washes them away. Walt just watches clumps of his hair disappear down the drain. He shakes his head in disbelief. This is his life now: he's fifty years old, newly divorced, lusting after a male co-worker half his age, and now he's losing his hair.

Walt wonders if this is punishment for jerking off while thinking about Jesse, which is so hilariously absurd that he starts laughing to himself in the shower, and it takes a while for him to stop.

He's in bed reading last month's _Scientific American_ when he gets a text from Jesse: _**what do u do w/ a dead chemist?**_

Walt isn't going to dignify that with a response; he refuses to be an accessory on the off-chance that Jesse has actual body disposal problems.

Thirty seconds later Jesse sends another text: _**you Barium ;)**_

Walt nearly throws his phone against the wall.


	6. Chapter 6

Jesse sets Saul's latte cup down on the table. "Anything else I can get you?" he grinds out.

Saul's wearing a rather loud set of colors today under his blazer: a pink shirt and a purple-and-black striped tie. He looks like a piece of Fruit Stripe gum stood up and put on a cream-colored suit. "How about some dirt on your parents? These people are cleaner than the Pope's ass."

Jesse frowns. "You can't find anything?"

"Nothing. Zip. Nada. Christ, they're almost too clean."

Jesse sucks in a breath, drops into the seat across from him. He can see out the windows from here, and the sky's a dull, lifeless grey this morning, as if the color's been sapped right out of it. "Alright, so what's plan B?"

Saul straightens up and makes a face. "You can't think of anything they might be even a teeny-tiny bit ashamed of? Look, kid, they're no saints—they're throwing you out on your ass. There's gotta be something—"

"I got it."

Saul blinks to attention.

"Uh, a year ago they, um, rigged my brother's spelling bee—like, paid off the judges and shit. If he won, he'd get the national championship plus, like, I dunno, some sort of award."

Saul scratches his chin as if in deep thought, then he scoffs, waves a hand. "That's it? A spelling bee? That's all you got?"

"Oh yeah, and they got a meth lab in the basement! C'mon, man, gimme a break!" Jesse sighs out and slumps back in his chair.

Saul goes quiet for a moment. "Would you say they care immensely about his education and future?"

"More than they ever did for me," Jesse mumbles, tapping his fingers on the tabletop, eyes unfocused on the faux marble pattern.

"You think the threat of the school board learning about this particular, uh, incident would be enough for them to keep their mitts off your place, or—" Saul stops talking after a casual glance at the front door. "Holy shit, look at you!"

Jesse snaps to attention, sees what Saul's seeing, and barely keeps himself from bursting into laughter. "Oh my God."

Walter White has shaved his head.

"What made you decide to break bald?" Saul chuckles.

Walt shoots Saul a glare that could cut titanium before moving behind the counter. Jesse scrambles out of his chair and rushes to his side. "Really, man, what's with the hair? Or lack of it, I guess." One side of Jesse's mouth tugs into a grin.

Walt's scowl softens a little, but he still looks scary enough to make Jesse swallow instinctively. "I thought I would try something new."

"You look like Lex Luthor," Jesse says, feeling his insides curl and stretch. "Kind of bad-ass." He smirks. "I like it." Walt does something with his mouth that might be classified as a smile. "You should grow an evil goatee to, like, complete the transition into Alternate Universe Mr. White. And get some henchmen." Jesse thinks on that. "Where do you even _get_ henchmen? Is there a store?"

Walt's giving him that puzzled "how are you even alive" look that Jesse knows very well. "Why are you saying these words?"

His gaze bores into Jesse like a drill into damp soil. Heat creeps over Jesse's face and crawls along his skin. "I'm just sayin', yo... It looks good. Makes you look younger, in a weird way." He shuts up and scratches the back of his neck, because he really needs to learn when to stop talking. Also, Walt needs to learn how to take a compliment

He thinks he hears Walt huff laughter though, so that verbal landslide was totally worth it.

#

Walt realizes that it's stupid and pathetic to be jealous of a fucking child, but he can't help the way something simmers in the pit of his stomach at how Jesse's face lights up when Mike brings his granddaughter into the shop on Friday afternoon. He knows he's being petty and ridiculous, but he really doesn't care. He should be the one making Jesse smile like that. Clearly, Jesse values his opinion in some way or else he wouldn't have given Walt his number or agreed to brew with him. And Walt could be that guy if he wasn't so emotionally fucking constipated, if he could just say things instead of thinking them. There has to exist a combination of words he can use that won't shatter Jesse's self-image or put Walt two steps behind where he started.

Jesse takes a couple cookies out of the display case and hands them to the girl before sitting across from her and Mike. He looks tired as all hell, but there's an almost ethereal happiness about him, an ease Jesse's never carried himself with around Walt. Maybe Jesse thinks he has to pretend for Walt, that he has to be someone he's not, and, truth be told, addicts aren't the world's greatest actors. Maybe Jesse's just a child himself and connects better with kids than adults.

In that case, Jesse ought to come around sometime when Holly's born. Walt wonders briefly if Jesse would even want to be entangled in that part of Walt's life, the part that isn't about giving orders or monitoring him in the kitchen. The part that's fragile and unbroken and clean. The part that's family.

And it's there at the espresso machine that it all occurs to Walt at once, and he freezes mid-pour as realization slams into him with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. Those aren't the kind of thoughts you have about a dude you just want to fuck. Walt's way past that now; he just thought about Jesse meeting his unborn daughter, involving Jesse in his children's lives.

God fucking help him, he's in deep.

Walt catches Jesse grabbing more treats from the display case. "So, you seem to be a natural with kids," Walt says, quiet and unassuming.

Jesse looks at him, curious, before straightening up. "Yeah, I guess."

"You ever think about having any of your own later?"

"Oh yeah, of course. Kids are awesome," Jesse says with a smile and no trace of sarcasm.

Walt says, "You know, uh, my wife—er, ex-wife—Skyler is six months pregnant." He lets out a small sound that's supposed to be a chuckle, but it comes out like a sob instead. "I'm fifty years old and I'm going to be a father again." Does Jesse understand what he's trying to say here?

Jesse lifts an eyebrow. "For real? That's awesome!" He watches Walt's face, and he must see something conflicted there, because he pulls back the enthusiasm. "Well, hey, if you ever need, like, a baby-sitter or something, you got my number." He's about to turn and head back to Mike's table, but he stops, like he's read Walt's stunned disbelief as something negative. "Y'know, I mean, if you want to. You probably got, like, family and shit, but I just thought I'd offer." He shrugs in that self-conscious way of his, so wrong yet so perfectly Jesse.

Walt tries to think up words that might soothe Jesse's unease, but Jesse's already heading back to Mike before Walt can say anything.

#

In a stroke of brilliance—and possibly some divine intervention—Saul manages to, uh, _persuade_ the Pinkmans into begrudgingly rescinding their ownership of Jesse's house. They're certainly not happy about it; Jesse's not looking forward to spending Thanksgiving with them, because it's awkward as hell to carve turkey with someone you've previously blackmailed.

But Jesse tries his hardest, going so far as to take charge of the pie-making, and he even makes a couple trays of cookies as a peace offering. He doesn't even know why he's making apology sweets—what exactly is he apologizing for? He wouldn't have had to blackmail them if they didn't threaten to kick him out on his ass for no discernable reason.

Yeah, he's still pissed about that.

So it's understandable that Jesse doesn't say much that evening over dinner, just tries to blend into the background. He hates that he feels obligated to be here despite all evidence pointing to his parents not wanting him around.

"So, Jesse," Mr. Pinkman says, "what exactly is it you do again?"

"I work at Los Frijoles Saltarines. Y'know, the coffee shop in that strip mall with the Chinese restaurant and Saul Goodman's office?"

"Ah, yes, I'm familiar with Mr. Goodman's work."

Jesse pushes the food on his plate around with his fork, clears his throat awkwardly. "Yeah, so, anyway, I, uh, I make the stuff in the display case. Like, the cookies and sh—stuff."

Mr. Pinkman gives a slow nod, like he's hearing this for the first time.

"You used to bake with Ginny, didn't you?" Mrs. Pinkman asks.

"Yeah, that's—that's how I learned."

"How long have you worked there?"

"About a couple weeks, I guess. It's pretty cool. You remember my chemistry teacher from Wynne, Mr. White? He works there too."

"Really?" Mrs. Pinkman raises an eyebrow. "He owns the shop?"

Jesse rubs the back of his neck and sinks a little in his chair. "No, he works there. Like, he makes the coffee."

Mr. and Mrs. Pinkman exchange a glance.

"If you think I'm lying you can, like, go there sometime and see for yourself." Jesse doesn't know why he feels like he has to justify his life choices.

A terse moment of silence passes, then Jake chirps, "So, Scott's going to space camp again this summer. You think I could go this year too?"

Mr. and Mrs. Pinkman look at each other again somberly. "I don't—I don't think that's going to happen, sweetie," Mrs. Pinkman says, shooting a glance at Jesse. Jesse scowls at his plate; this is total, complete bullshit. He shouldn't have to tolerate his parents jerking him around like this, yet here he is. "I don't know when we're going to have the money for things like that. I'm sorry."

Jesse feels like there's a neon sign over his head that's blinking the words "my fault!" again and again. Jake seems to read the meaningful looks his parents are giving Jesse right about now, because he switches the discussion topic to something else entirely: "Did I tell you the short story I wrote for English class is getting published in the school periodical?"

Jesse feels like he's just been punched in the stomach. As if this dinner conversation couldn't get any worse for his self-esteem.

Mrs. Pinkman gasps. "No! Jake, that's wonderful! Congratulations!"

Jesse just eats the rest of his pie in angry silence.

He volunteers to wash the dishes by hand after dinner, because he has to at least _try_ to be a model son. His parents are watching TV in the den, talking with Jake about his newest accomplishment. The water scalds Jesse's hands, but he barely notices the temperature. His own blood is boiling.

Jake comes into the kitchen, opens up the fridge for a soda. Jesse decides he's not going to let this one go. "You could've told them that whenever. Why'd you have to rub it in everyone's face that I'm a loser?"

"I thought you would appreciate a diversion," Jake says, hurt in his voice. "You seemed like you were uncomfortable with all the attention."

"Yeah, well, I was, but that didn't give you the right to totally upstage me." Jesse breathes out a sigh. "I don't even know why I'm here. You know they tried to kick me out of my place?"

Jake shakes his head.

"Said they need the money." Jesse scoffs. "Guess they'll have to start downsizing." He occupies his hands with another dish to wash. "It's not fair. What I do...sure, it's not, like, super important or anything, not gonna win me any awards, but I'm good at it. And it's like they don't even care."

"All they ever talk about is you," Jake says.

Jesse freezes, and for a moment he _gets_ it. He gets why Jake overachieves to an almost disgusting degree, why Jake had to one-up him tonight when Jesse started getting attention. But it doesn't make him feel any better. He almost feels worse, because the way Jesse sees it he's screwed this kid up for life solely by existing.

"I'm sorry," Jesse breathes out, and he means it.

He hurries through the rest of the dishes and opts to leave early, claiming tomorrow's an early start for the post-Thanksgiving rush. His parents don't look like they believe him, but Jesse doesn't even bother trying to sell the lie. He knows better now.

Jesse decides to go to the one place he's wanted, somewhere he doesn't have to bullshit his way through or feel like he's not good enough.

#**  
**

When Walt pulls up to the shop early the morning after Thanksgiving, he notices in horror that the other employees have been decorating. There's a huge, gaudy wreath mounted on the entry door, and Jesse and Gale are outside stringing multi-colored lights around the front window. Gale hears the gravel crunching under tires almost immediately, whirling around to greet Walt as he steps out of his car, but Jesse pays him no mind. Walt ought to be used to the way Jesse radiates an air of zero fucks given at all times, but there's a small part of him that wishes Jesse was as transparently eager-to-please as Gale. Okay, it's not _that_ small.

"Good morning!" Gale chirps, his breath plumes of air against the cold.

"What's so good about it?" Walt grumbles as he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. "It's freezing."

Jesse tugs the earbud out of his ear from underneath his ridiculous beanie. "Mr. White, are you bein' a grump?"

Walt glares at him; why is everyone so goddamn cheery today? "You decorated."

"Yeah, what'd'ya think?" Jesse smiles that stupid smile, the one that's way too earnest for approval and validation, the one Walt just can't get enough of.

"It's...festive."

"I thought we ought to show some holiday spirit," Gale adds.

Walt gives a non-commital nod. "You don't think it's a little"—he searches for a polite word—"loud?" The lights can probably be seen from Santa Fe.

Gale lifts an eyebrow. "Look at Saul's place."

Walter looks across the parking lot and, sweet Christ on a pogo stick, _why_? The inflatable Statue of Liberty atop Saul's practice is decked out in a Santa costume—complete with a sled and reindeer.

"Jesus," Walt mutters under his breath, because he's surrounded by idiots.

"How can you even be pissed?" Jesse says. "It's gonna be a white Christmas this year." He pauses, laughs. "Yo, get it?" Walt shakes his head, refusing to be charmed by Jesse's stupid puns, and pushes his way into the store. He hears Jesse say, "Fuck you, that was funny," before the door shuts behind him.

Gus is behind the counter changing the filter coffee. Walt notices that even the inside of the shop wasn't spared decorations; there's a long stretch of garland—with white lights, even—wrapped around the counter. A tiny little Christmas tree sits perched on the display case of baked goods. Inside the case are about a dozen intricately decorated cupcakes, each adorned with either a fondant snowflake, penguin, or snowman. There's red and green sprinkled cake pops with peppermint sticks, and a tray of gingerbread men—each uniquely iced—rounds out the top shelf of baked goods; the lower two shelves boast the usual, non-seasonal fare. Jesse was busy this morning.

"Gale and Jesse have quite the infectious holiday spirit, hm?" Gus asks.

"Well, that's one word for it." Walt moves behind the counter to get started on the morning brew.

Gus makes a quiet noise of laughter in his throat and hums something that sounds a lot like "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch." Walt rolls his eyes so hard he can visually inspect the inside of his skull.

#

Jesse's putting the finishing touches on the snowflake sugar cookies when Walt barges into the kitchen. "You gonna shit on my excitement for Christmas some more?" Jesse asks, not even bothering to look up.

"Not exactly. I'll admit it's...sort of endearing."

Jesse's head shoots up, because, holy shit, Walt actually said something _nice_ about him. This might be a sign of the impending apocalypse. Jesse doesn't even know what to do with that, even more so now that he notices Walt looks sort of flustered, like he's embarrassed to have said anything. "Th—thanks, Mr. White." Jesse's smiling in a way that probably makes him look like an escaped lunatic, but he doesn't even care. Walt said something nice and he's going to bask in it, goddamn it.

Jesse pushes the tray of cookies toward him, inviting him to try one, but Walt shakes his head. Jesse tries not to put his disappointment on display when he asks, "So what's your deal, anyway? Why do you hate Christmas?"

"I don't hate Christmas," Walt says, like he's offended.

"Well, you're not exactly singin' carols either, so what's up?"

Walt makes a face of contemplation that Jesse recognizes from high school. "Most people spend Christmas with their families."

Jesse's train of thought gets snagged on old wounds for a moment before he hears the implications in that sentence. "Oh. And you're...not?"

Walt gives a half-hearted shrug. "I get the impression they don't want me around," he admits after a period of silence that lasts a little too long.

Jesse doesn't know what to say to that, so he goes with the tried and true: "That sucks." He feels like his situation with his parents is similar, but he doesn't want to seem like he's monopolizing this conversation and making it all about his problems. But he really wants Walt to stop being so grumpy and maybe smile a little. "My parents feel the same way about me, I think. Ever since Jake came along—that's my little brother—they sorta just...stopped trying." He rubs the back of his neck and looks away, hating the idea of being watched while he's spilling his guts here.

There's a short moment where neither of them say anything, where Jesse thinks about asking Walt to spend Christmas with him if he's not wanted among his own. This weird little friendship they have going on is still so fragile and new, and Jesse doesn't want to abuse or break it by trampling over boundaries. Maybe this would be easier if he thought Walt was just a friend, if he didn't feel like there'd be an unspoken subtext in the invitation.

But Gale sticks his head into the kitchen before Jesse can speak again, and the moment's gone. "Jesse? Walt? I need one of you out here."

Walt opts to help Gale, probably so Jesse can keep cooking, but he's got a nagging feeling it's because Jesse said or did something to make him uncomfortable and flee the scene.

Damn it.

It's twenty minutes after close when Jesse starts pouring a Crème base for a frappuccino. Walt scowls at him, as he's prone to do, because if he didn't show disapproval over Jesse's life choices he'd have too much free time. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like? I'm making a drink. Chill." He chuckles to himself at his own joke, and he's about to whip up a Strawberries and Crème when he pauses. It strikes him as odd that this place only boasts a select few frappuccino flavors. That's like only offering a handful of cookie flavors—inconceivable. If there's one thing Jesse knows how to make, it's sweets, and aren't frappes basically liquid sweets?

He's going to experiment here. He's not wild about the idea of tainting this potentially delicious creation with coffee, so he swings the drink over to the syrup pumps and surveys his choices. He starts out simple: three pumps of toffee nut and three pumps of caramel syrup.

Walt's watching him with a confused sort of frustration, like he wants to be upset but doesn't know what about. Jesse blends it together, spritzes some whip and caramel drizzle on top. At this point, Gale and Gus are watching him too, though with far less suspicion.

He takes a sip.

It's good. Damn good, really. There's a sweet, smooth flavor to it that teeters on the cusp of "too much," but not so much that it prohibits him from sucking down more. He moans approval around another sip, offers the drink up to any non-believers.

Gale is the second to try it, because he's awesome like that. "Oh my God," he says. "That's fantastic!"

Jesse beams, scrubs a hand through his hair. "Thanks, I was just messin' around."

Gus takes a sip and makes a noise of agreement around the straw. "Very good."

All three of them look at Walt, silently urging him to taste test Jesse's creation. Walt sighs and tentatively reaches for the drink, sips like it might harm him somehow. Jesse doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he sighs out in relief when Walt says, "Not bad."

That's "hell yeah, bitch," in Walter White-speak.


	7. Chapter 7

Walt thinks Gus ought to invest in some sort of screening system, because on Friday afternoon Tuco Salamanca strolls into Los Frijoles Saltarines like he owns the damn place. Walt briefly considers throwing a cup at him, if only because of his unrepentant douchebaggery; his shady past with Gus doesn't help matters.

"Tuco," Walt sighs, "it's certainly a pleasure seeing your cheery face here."

Tuco makes a nasty sound of amusement, ignoring Walt's snark and striding up to the counter. "Who's your cook?" If that's how Tuco conducts business—absolutely no pleasantries, no interest in other people—Walt seriously wonders how Vamonos even makes a penny.

"Uh, that'd be me," Jesse says, emerging from the kitchen and wiping his hands on a dishrag. Walt's not surprised Jesse heard that; it's like he's got sonar when it comes to scoping out potential compliments. "What can I get you?"

"What's the best you got?"

Jesse thinks for a moment. "The brownies are pretty dope," he says, pulling one out from the glass display case.

"Pretty dope, huh? Is that why I've been hearing so much about this place?"

Walt figures this isn't a "ignore him until he goes away" situation. He slinks into Gus' office, disrupting Gus from what Walt's almost sure is a rousing game of Guild Wars. "We may have a problem."

Gus looks up from his laptop, folds his hands on his desk. Mr. Interested. "Problem?"

"Tuco."

Gus narrows his eyes. "I see." He nods and rises from his chair, walking out of the office with long, confident strides. Walt hangs back and watches the master at work. Gus approaches the counter, nudging Jesse aside, and smiles at Tuco. "Ah, Mr. Salamanca, it's so good to see you," he says, and his tone belies his words.

Tuco grins, flashing his grill. "Tuco, please. Mr. Salamanca is my father."

Gus's jaw clenches and relaxes almost minutely. "Yes, I'm well aware. Give him my regards."

Tuco's grin grows wider, but there's a hint of malice that wasn't there before. "Yeah, I will. Speakin' of which, how's Max?"

Gus's face goes terrifyingly blank, then there's a look of rage that would make a lesser man wither into jelly. Gus says something in Spanish that Walt can't make out, but from the tone of Gus' voice it sounds like a portentous threat.

Tuco chuckles, unfazed. "Gustavo, is this how you treat your customers?"

"None of my customers have our history," Gus says tightly. His poise is perfect, professional, but Walt can see the tense of anger along his frame. "Please remove yourself from the premises."

Tuco stares him down for a moment before snatching the brownie off of the counter and walking away. Jesse whimpers an aborted complaint, because Tuco just walked off with stolen merchandise, but Gus shakes his head and strolls back into his office. The door shuts with a little more force than necessary.

Jesse turns to Walt, his eyes wide, and gives him a "what the actual fuck just happened" look. Apparently, Jesse doesn't believe in the ability of facial expressions to communicate an idea, because he then says, "Yo, what the fuck was that?"

"Gus and Tuco have a"—Walt searches for the word—"history."

"Yeah, no shit!" Jesse thinks for a moment, then lowers his voice to ask, "Did they used to date or something?"

Walt rolls his eyes but finds himself chuckling. "I wish it were that simple."

"You know?" Jesse whines. "C'mon, Mr. White, tell me!"

What's he supposed to do? It's not exactly Walt's own secret to tell, but he's not sure if it's an actual secret or not; with the right public records, Jesse could find out for himself. Walt decides to just cut to the chase: "Gus lost his partner in a car wreck about a year and a half ago."

Jesse's expression collapses. "Jesus..."

"The driver of the other car was Hector Salamanca." At Jesse's blank look, Walt supplies, "The previous owner of Vamonos."

"So Tuco's, like, his son?"

"His nephew."

"Did he die?"

"His injuries left him unable to keep running the place, so Tuco took over," Walt says.

"Mr. Fring told you all this?"

Walt nods again. He remembers that late night when Gale had dragged him and Gus along to a karaoke bar; while Gale belted out a, uh, heart-warming rendition of Journey's "Open Arms," Gus sat at the bar and waxed reminiscent with Walt about Max. After a few more drinks, Walt learned the rest of the story. "The crash was ruled as an accident; Hector was drunk, although under the legal limit. Then again, so was Max. But Gus still blamed Hector. That's why he started this place."

"To sell more coffee than him?" Jesse has a special way of making everything sound fucking ridiculous.

"To beat him at his own game, but, well, yes. The life insurance was blood money he wanted to burn."

Jesse glances at Gus's office door. "Jesus, how's he keep himself from kicking the shit outta that guy?"

"Well, for one, he has a properly-functioning hypothalamus."

Jesse's face slips through confused and bewildered before settling into disgust. "What's his dick have to do with it?"

Walt sighs. "The _hypothalamus_ is the most primitive part of the brain." Seriously, how did Jesse even get "penis" out of that? The inside of Jesse's head must be the most homoerotic place—well, aside from Walt's own. Walt must have done something awful in a past life, because he's pretty much doomed to spend the rest of his life fantasizing about Jesse in every position. Just imagining things he'll never get to have or touch or stick his dick into.

Jesse continues to stare at him blankly, so Walt just sighs again like he's physically pained and says, "Get back to work," ushering Jesse in the direction of the display case.

#

Jesse spends the next few days creating new frappuccino flavors during breaks and after close. He's managed to build an impressive repertoire, including the Phoenix (the previously successful toffee-caramel combination), Thin Mint (affectionately dubbed "Green Light"), Raspberry Cheesecake, Cinnamon Roll, Orange Creamsicle, and his personal favorite, Captain Crunch—Strawberries and Crème with one pump of caramel, two pumps of toffee, one pump of hazelnut, and two scoops of chocolate chips.

He's scrawling the new menu additions onto the daily specials chalkboard as Walt tends to the espresso machine. "Y'know, Jesse, I certainly don't mean to rain on your parade, but it's winter. People want warm drinks."

"You're just jealous of my skills, Mr. White," Jesse sing-songs.

Walt huffs annoyance. "I think your 'skills' might be better applied to something more seasonally appropriate, that's all."

Mike looks up from his newspaper. "That's not entirely true, Walter. It could be below freezing, and Kaylee would still want ice cream."

Jesse gestures as if to say, "See?" Walt just frowns harder. "You should bring her in next time you get the chance," Jesse says to Mike. "We got a deal, remember?"

"I remember," Mike says with a smile.

Walt's wearing his confused face. "His granddaughter," Jesse supplies. Walt nods slowly. "See, it's almost like people actually like you when you give a shit about their lives."

"I give a shit," Walt says, with offense, like he's been coerced into admitting it.

"Yeah, like, once a year. But that's why I like you."

Walt's face goes through a complex chain of emotions before he asks, "You do?"

"When you're not acting like you got the world's biggest stick up your ass, hell yeah." Jesse grins and puts the finishing touches on the chalkboard before hanging it up beside the menu.

Saul comes in during his lunch break, thoroughly impressed with the new menu additions. "You guys got the competition by the balls; Vamonos hasn't thought to put their cinnamon rolls in a blender," he says as he sidles up to the counter.

"'Cause I don't work for 'em," Jesse says, flashing a prideful smile. "What can I get you?"

Saul peels his gloves off. "Something warm. I think I got frostbite on the walk over."

Walt elbows Jesse meaningfully. Jesse ignores him. "Coffee or non?"

Saul makes a face. "C'mon, Jesse. You should know me by now. Coffee. Large."

Walt moves to take over, because coffee is his area of expertise, but Jesse's nudging him aside to add two shots of espresso, and caramel, toffee nut, and cinnamon dolce syrup to a whole milk steamer. "You want a brownie or somethin'?"

"I got a box of take-out waiting for me."

"Oh man, that sounds dope. Is it from Wok This Way?"

"Their orange chicken is what dreams are made of."

"For real though! You gotta get the shrimp with lobster sauce next time; it's the fuckin' bomb." Jesse tops the drink with whipped cream and caramel drizzle, slides the cup over to Saul.

The cup's belching steam, so Saul goes back to his office to enjoy delicious take-out. About ten minutes later, Huell and Patrick burst in. Patrick rushes up the counter; Huell's a little slower, but not by much. "What'd you make Saul?" Patrick asks.

Jesse's eyes go wide in panic. "A—a Phoenix latte," he says, lilting off at the end. "Why? Did he like it?" He doesn't see a depressing mess of coffee spilled all over the parking lot, but that doesn't mean much.

"We need it." Patrick slaps a five-dollar bill on the marble.

"He wouldn't even let me try it, just kept...moaning things," Huell adds.

"That's promising," Walt says in a rare display of optimism.

Huell's eyeing the display case. "Oh, and gimme one of them pretzels too."

Jesse fixes up the lattes and hands the orders over. "You gotta let me know if you guys liked it, alright?"

"Saul loved it," Huell says around a bite of pretzel. "Wouldn't even give a brother a sip." He shakes his head like Saul's disappointed him in the worst of ways. "Good pretzel."

Gale smiles in appreciation.

When the lattes are no longer at lava temperature, Huell and Patrick gulp some down. Huell lets out a low whistle. "Damn, that's beautiful."

Jesse grins, turns to Walt. "Hear that, Mr. White? It's _beautiful_."

Walt rolls his eyes, but there's no heat to it.

Jesse spends the rest of the shift doling out sweets and occasionally fixing up lattes for the more adventurous customers. He might actually be humming to himself while he sweeps the shop floor after close. Gale stands behind the counter sipping a white mocha and hazelnut latte that Jesse brewed up for him. Walt's just there to serve as the human embodiment of disapproval and frowns.

"Your lattes are really good," Gale says. He's like a puppy; eager to please and be liked. "Don't you think so, Walt?"

Walt's face says he's either constipated or heartily disagrees with that sentence. "I suppose, yes, Jesse is very creative."

Jesse scoffs a laugh. "Way to dodge the question. But thanks anyway."

Walt makes a noise like that wasn't intended as a compliment. Jesse whips out his phone and texts Walt: _**do u have an extra electron or somethin cuz ur being rly negative**_

Walt looks at the text, groans and shakes his head. "Chemistry puns, really?"

"You're finally in your element."

Walt actually fucking _smiles_, and Jesse knows he's won him over.

#

Jesse was never actually supposed to be _good_ at making coffee. Walt had been banking on Jesse's talents extending only so far as baking, but now he's making lattes and encroaching on Walt's territory and just..._no_. It's bad enough that his crap-shoot talent garnered him so much esteem, but Jesse just had to start throwing elbows and forcing his way into the coffee side of the business.

Okay, Jesse did absolutely no forcing; that was all Walt and his brilliant idea of teaching Jesse to brew, because as much as he finds humor in Gale's affection for him Walt's thirst for Jesse has pretty much screwed his own life sideways.

All Walt has is his brew. If Jesse takes over, Walt's got nothing good to show for his destructive descent into Mid-life Crisisland. He needs an edge to tip the scales in his favor and get him some semblance of control back.

He needs to spike Jesse's batches. Not with poison or anything detrimental, rather, something that would _improve_ his cook. Something Walt could take silent credit for. Something Jesse—or their clientele—would never notice.

Something like monosodium glutamate.

As a white crystalline powder, it would be easy enough to slip into flour or sugar, and it wouldn't bring the shop any heat from health inspection. All it would do is enhance the flavor to make Jesse's sweets more savory. All because of Walt.

Walt does his research and opts not to buy from their own supplier Lydia at Madrigal, only because she would absolutely tell Gus that he'd shown up. So he buys from Vamonos' supplier instead like a dirty traitor; Walt tries and fails to feel bad about it.

He knows that Gus doesn't have cameras in the kitchen, so after everyone's gone home and left Walt to lock up on Tuesday evening, he sneaks in to measure out the optimal concentration of monosodium glutamate and mix the crystals into the sugar supply. Tomorrow, Jesse will cook using this batch of sugar and never know Walt had a hand in the delicious cookies or brownies borne from it.

Walt's kind of proud of himself in a weird, horrible way.


	8. Chapter 8

Mike's driving Jesse home from his NA meeting on Wednesday night when he says, "You're doin' good, kid. I'm proud of you."

Jesse fingers the thirty-day chip in his hoodie pocket. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, it's only been a month."

"I was talking about the business—but while I'm giving out compliments..." He smiles.

"Oh, you think? I'm just messin' around with stuff. I'm glad people like it."

"You ever think about startin' up your own place? You got the skills."

Jesse feels his face flush. "I dunno, I kinda like the way it is now. I don't have to worry about all that complicated shit, y'know? I just do what I'm good at."

"You'd make a lot more money," Mike reminds him, and Jesse nods in consideration, because he's thought about it before. "I'd hate to see you get stuck at the bottom of the ladder when you got potential for so much more. That's all."

Jesse settles back in the seat and smiles to himself. Mike's like the awesome, supportive grandpa he never had. "Yeah, well, maybe I'll think about it."

They drive for a while in comfortable silence. Mike says, "I could go for a burger right about now. You hungry?"

Jesse says yes, because he skipped breakfast this morning and has subsisted on cookie dough, brownie batter, and weirdly-deformed cookies throughout the day. They eat in Mike's car, parked at the back of Jesse's house with the gates creaking from the wind. Jesse toys with the radio. "Man, you gotta update your taste in music."

"Sinatra is timeless."

Jesse scoffs, settles on some poppy, rock song with a good beat, but then he hears the lyrics and immediately thinks about Walt. His hand twitches with the reflex to switch to something else, but Mike would jump all over that like a cheetah on a wounded gazelle. So Jesse just eats his fries in solemn, thoughtful silence.

"You know this is a cover song?" Mike supplies around a mouthful of bacon, lettuce, and tomato, like that's information Jesse might need in his brain at some point. Jesse makes a noise of acknowledgement in his throat. "See, you can't escape the classics."

"Not sure I'd call it a classic." Jesse gazes out the window, trying very hard not to fall into the black hole of his own thoughts regarding Walt, because that way lies madness. This is messed up in a way he doesn't know how to handle. Usually he'd smoke some crystal—or even pot, because these are desperate times now—to distract himself, but the NA meetings have snuffed out that avenue. So he has to think about it. As much as he likes Mike, Jesse's still not ready to start a dialogue about his latent homosexual feelings for his fifty-year-old co-worker/ex-chemistry teacher. Christ, this is the kind of shit he used to see on those crappy daytime TV shows his Aunt Ginny used to watch. Jesse's life has somehow turned into a Maury Povich segment.

His brain just has to be confused from spending all that time in close quarters with Walt. Sure, the guy's divorced, but that doesn't mean anything. He's got a baby on the way, and he spoke about it like he's going to be involved in the child-raising process, so it's not like Walt's been totally kicked to the curb. Plus, Walt never said when he got the divorce; it could be fairly recent. Isn't there some sort of waiting period before divorcees start dating again?

And, okay, maybe Jesse likes having Walt around, with the way he takes everything too seriously due to the perpetual stick up his ass, and the rare moments where he lets his walls down once in a while and acts like an actual person. The way he gives Jesse just enough—but not too much that it's not sincere—and makes him work for it, so it feels like he earned it. The way Walt looks at him sometimes, like maybe he's having the same internal conflict himself...

Jesse demolishes more of his burger.

Mike lifts a curious eyebrow. "Somethin' on your mind?"

"Nah, I'm just really hungry." He takes another bite.

Mike looks skeptical but doesn't push it. "I noticed you've started making friends with Walter."

Jesse nearly chokes on a piece of lettuce, sucks down a third of his Coke so he can breathe again. "Friends? I dunno about that. He's pretty, uh, difficult."

Mike tips his head like he's agreeing with Jesse. "He seems to have a decent rapport with you."

"Nah, I think he just tolerates me 'cause Mr. Fring hired me. I mean, why would Mr. White like me?" Jesse hopes Mike doesn't hear all the baggage in that sentence.

"_I_ like you. Everybody likes you, Jesse. Walter's the odd man out here."

Jesse wants to argue with that, but he knows Mike would read into it and possibly sniff out another secret. He shrugs and eats some more fries. "Yeah, maybe."

They don't talk about anything too heavy after that, and Jesse doesn't mind one bit.

#

Mike drops Jesse off at the café on Thursday morning, which rankles Walt's suspicions of something nefarious and secretive going on between them. Walt's supposed to be the old guy Jesse runs to, not Mike Ehrmantraut, goddamn it. It really, really doesn't help that Walt notices Jesse leaves with Mike on Wednesday evenings. Son of a—

"Jesse!" Walt greets him, plastering on a pleasant smile that probably makes him look mentally unbalanced. "You're right on time."

"Yo, Mr. White." Jesse gives him an acknowledging nod and a small little smile before disappearing into the kitchen. Walt's never had any luck that he hasn't tried to push, so he lets Gale handle the queue and follows Jesse inside. Jesse senses his presence and turns his head. "'Sup? You got somethin' you wanna talk about?"

Walt shuffles his feet and ambles closer in a poor attempt to be subtle. "No, not particularly. I just thought we'd catch up." He spreads his hands, claps them together like a softball coach trying to be encouraging.

Jesse lugs out the recipe book and starts flipping through it.

"So, uh, I see you and Mike are getting along rather well."

"Yeah, he's pretty cool for an old dude. Y'know he used to be a cop?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, this one time he almost killed a guy, like, had the gun in his mouth and everything."

Walt moves closer. He thinks he smells the faint aroma of maple syrup wafting off of Jesse's hoodie. "I don't believe that's proper police procedure."

"Well, that's Mike for ya." Jesse flits across the kitchen floor, gathering ingredients and utensils. "He doesn't exactly play by the book."

"So I've noticed," Walt mumbles. At least Saul is upfront about his sleaziness; Mike is quiet and unassuming, then he steals the guy you've been making googly eyes at for the past month or so right out from under your nose. Dick.

Jesse sets a mixing bowl down on the counter, gives him a little smirk that's flirtatious and cocky at the same time. "You gonna stand there and jerk off or are you gonna help me?"

Walt takes a sharp turn away from that train of thought. He tries not to grin at the sugar container as if he's had some sort of saucy affair with it. "I'll help."

He assists Jesse in measuring out the ingredients, wonders how to start the conversation he came here to have. Because it's not going to be fun for either of them. "Jesse, is there a reason you smell like maple syrup, or is that just a new soap you're trying out?" He can't _not_ think about Jesse naked in the shower now, and, yeah, that's as unfairly hot as it sounds.

"I had breakfast with Mike," Jesse says, like it's no big deal, like it's something he does regularly. Oh God, what if it _is_? "Triple stack, bitch."

"Do you...do this a lot?" Because Walt has to know. His curiousity is eating him alive.

Jesse shrugs. "Sorta. We hang out sometimes."

"Yeah, I've—I've noticed. Wednesdays are kind of your _thing_, aren't they?"

Jesse breathes out a shaky laugh. "Stalker, much? Relax, _Dad_, I'm always home before curfew."

Walt's first instinct to Jesse's sass should not be the urge to kiss him. Maybe he could rationalize it as punching Jesse's mouth with his own lips, but, really, that's reaching. "I was merely making an observation."

"And, what, you think I'm dating him? Is that what this is?" Jesse snaps. "Dude's old enough to be my grandfather."

That's awesome for Walt's self-esteem. He bites back with an equally-painful gut punch of an accusation: "So what the hell is going on with you two? Are you sleeping with him?"

Jesse's eyes go wide in horror, his face bright red, then he's suddenly furious. "He's my NA sponsor, you fucking pervert!"

"Oh," is all Walt can say, because, seriously, what do you say to _that_? "Why didn't you ask me?"

Jesse just gapes at him, and, oh God, somehow Walt actually managed to make this worse. "Because you're not an addict, dumbass," Jesse bites out. "Besides, why the hell would I ask you anyway? You're an asshole who jumps on any opportunity to judge me. Sure, let me hand one to you on a fuckin' silver platter."

Walt opens his mouth, closes it; that sounds pretty awful. Is that really how he comes off? "I don't judge you."

Jesse laughs a bitter sound. "You were literally judging me ten seconds ago when you thought I was sleeping with Mike." He shudders like he's trying to shake away the mental image.

Walt throws his arms up in a shrug. "You got judging from that?" Jesse just rolls his eyes and goes back to mixing ingredients rather violently. At this rate he's going to break the spoon in half. Walt lays a hand over Jesse's wrist, and Jesse goes frighteningly still, like Walt has terrible magical powers of paralysis. "Jesse, I don't judge you for the choices you make. I'm disappointed sometimes, sure, but only because I know you could do and be so much more." Walt wishes he could take the words back; Jesse's face looks like it's trying to be angry and confused and captivated all at once. "But I don't think less of you because of your choices."

Jesse nods slowly, and Walt watches the way his throat moves when he swallows. He strokes his thumb along the inside of Jesse's wrist before letting his hand fall away. Walt has no idea why he ever thought touching Jesse was a good idea; he can still feel the warmth from Jesse's skin on his fingertips even after he's left the kitchen.

#

Gus calls Jesse into his office Friday night around close while Gale and Walt are sweeping the shop floor. The room is a confusing mix of a storage room and office, and Jesse stands tentatively in the doorway because Gus is quiet and mild in a way that's terrifying.

"Ah, Jesse, come in, please," Gus greets him, and Jesse does as he's asked. "You're welcome to sit. This may take a few moments of your time."

That's not reassuring at all. Jesse drops down into the chair and tries not to look too nervous.

"How are you doing?"

Jesse knows he's not asking about his mood. "Good. Thirty-two days now."

Gus nods, pleased with this development. "That's excellent news." He folds his hands atop his desk and focuses his attention on Jesse. "Now, onto the reason I asked you here: I am considering opening a few more stores, expanding the business. We have become very profitable since you came along. I was wondering if you might be interested in a promotion. You would be in charge of developing the recipes we use, compiling them into a collection for mass distribution, and overseeing our baking department."

There are no words for this. Jesse's gut reaction is to assume this is a joke, but considering how he got this job it's entirely possible that Gus is actually thinking about promoting him. "Seriously?" He still sounds dubious of Gus's intentions.

"I'm quite serious. Our profits have skyrocketed due to your ingenuity."

Now there's a word Jesse's never heard applied to him before. He lifts his eyebrows, leans back in the chair a little to let this soak in.

"It all depends on maintaining your sobriety, of course," Gus continues, "but I'm sure you can handle it."

Jesse considers this. "So, like, where would I go? Would I go here or whichever place needs me, or...?"

"You would go to the location that needs you. You wouldn't be baking anything, just making quality checks, ensuring the cooks are following the proper guidelines. A good portion of the work could be done from home—I'm referring to the creation of the different recipes—at least two new menu additions a month, plus seasonal lines." Gus watches Jesse's face; perhaps he doesn't like what he sees there, because he says, "The pay will be satisfactory, of course."

Half of Jesse loves the idea—because, hell yeah, bitch, a promotion—but the other half is apprehensive. He likes being hands-on and actually baking stuff and selling it and experiencing people's reactions to it. He likes not having to worry about complicated shit. He likes working alongside Walt—who, yes, is grumpy and easily irritated, but can also be pretty damn nice when he wants to be—and, okay, Jesse's not going to lie and say Walt's hideous with poor hygiene; he's had way too many dirty thoughts involving Walt's beard than can be considered healthy.

Jesse stares at the deployment sheets on the wall for a moment before the glare of headlights through the blinds snaps him back to reality. "Oh man, okay, this—this is awesome. Thank you so much, Mr. Fring. I'm honored to be, like, your go-to guy for this."

Gus smiles eagerly.

"But, uh, where would these other stores be? Like, within driving distance?"

"There would be some expectations for travel, but you would be compensated for the fare. I plan on opening more stores in the New Mexico area, as well as Arizona, Nevada, Colorado, and Texas." Jesse's expression must be abysmal, because Gus says, "It's easy to get overwhelmed hearing all this, I'm sure, and I assure you it will be a slow, steady process. You won't be expected to start all of this at once."

Jesse scrubs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I—I gotta think about it. Is that cool?"

Gus nods. "Take all the time you need."

Jesse's hands are shaking when he leaves the office.

#

Walt shows up at Skyler's house around nine in the morning on Saturday, because he's an early riser and wants to catch Junior before his friends can. He doesn't expect Junior to actually open the door for him.

"Junior, hey!" It comes out more surprised than he'd like. "You're up early."

Junior frowns, glances behind him for a moment. "Yeah, I couldn't sleep."

Walt senses that's a lie but doesn't push it. He notices that Junior's already dressed for the day. "You, uh, you got plans?"

Junior shakes his head. "Not unless you do."

"Is your mom still asleep?" Junior nods. Walt spreads his hands. "So...breakfast?"

Junior's more than happy to take Walt up on the offer. They stop at a Denny's, lured by the promise of delicious pancakes and eggs with no veggie bacon whatsoever. Junior doesn't say very much, but he doesn't act like he was dragged here against his will. So that's an improvement.

Walt pokes at the silence as they eat. "So, how come you wanted to hang out with your old man today? Was Louis busy?" He laughs to himself.

Junior doesn't share in the humor. "N—no, I just...I had to get out of there. It's like—it's like Mom's gone crazy or something."

Walt lifts an eyebrow. "Crazy how?"

Junior gets this guilty expression on his face, like he's said too much. He pokes at his pancakes for a while before he says, "She started going out with this guy from work. Ted something."

"Ted Beneke?"

"Yeah, that's it. It just—it just really sucks, you know?"

Walt knows. He nods slowly. He wants to say something, but he doesn't know how, doesn't know the words.

Junior drags his glass closer, watches Walt like he's waiting for something. Walt tries words and hopes they won't betray him. "I haven't been honest with you about what's been going on because...I didn't want to drive more of a wedge between us."

"I can handle it," Junior insists. "Whatever happened with you and Mom...just tell me."

If Walt can't be honest with his own son, who can he trust? "All right, well... Your mother and I decided to separate. We still care about each other and love each other, just in a different way than we used to."

Junior mulls that one over for a moment, then, "So you got a divorce?"

"Yes. Yes, we did."

"Was it because of the baby?"

Walt shuts his eyes. "No, no, of course not. We just realized that we aren't as happy together as we used to be."

Junior doesn't say anything for a while, just nods and stares at his plate. This must be hard for him to hear that his parents are no longer happy together. Any kid, no matter how loved, will see that as a reflection on himself, wonder what he must have said or done to cause his parents such unhappiness. But the more Walt insists it's not his fault, the more Junior will believe it _is_. So he leaves it alone.

"You're not gonna get back together, are you?"

Walt winces a little. "I don't see that happening. But, hey, this doesn't have to be a bad thing. Ted's pretty well-to-do; you could probably milk a couple high-end gifts out of him."

Junior smiles. "You think he'd get me a car for my birthday?"

"I wouldn't go _that_ far." Walt grins. "But I guess dropping a hint wouldn't hurt."

Junior laughs, like Walt's said something good, like they're not in that weird cusp of uncomfortable conversation anymore.

Walt feels a buzz in his jacket, digs his phone out of the pocket. Of course, it's Jesse: _**what element is ur homie...BROmine**_

Walt hates that he's laughing at such a lame joke, but he's going to chalk it up to the fact that he wasn't expecting it.. He doesn't know how to handle the way his heart does flip-flops in his chest when he gets a message from Jesse, because it means that Jesse was thinking about him.

"What is it?" Junior asks around a mouthful of pancakes.

"Oh, just—just a friend from work. He, uh, he sends me these chemistry jokes..."

"Let me see." Walt hands him the phone so Junior can read the text. "That's pretty funny." Junior starts pressing buttons, and for a brief moment Walt's horrified that he might be replying, but Junior's only scrolling through the message history to read the older ones. "Does he—does he know chemistry?"

"I really doubt it." Walt's brow furrows. "I don't know how he's getting these jokes, unless he's taking them from the internet."

Junior gives him a knowing smile as he hands the phone back. "Why would he do that?"

Walt scoffs, shrugs his shoulders. "Beats me."

"Maybe he likes you," Junior says simply around a laugh.

Walt's mouth drops open. His fork clatters against his plate. "What? No, no. You're—no, he wouldn't... No."

"If he was a girl, would you say the same thing?"

"I really, really doubt that's what's happening here. He's not—and even if he were, he wouldn't...not me." Walt's a little stunned by that train-wreck of a sentence. Junior just shrugs and eats his pancakes, like this discussion isn't scarring him for life. No child should have to play matchmaker to his parents. "Why are you so supportive about this anyway? You were just talking about how your mother dating someone else is, to put it lightly, uncomfortable."

"Yeah, but I figure if you're dating someone else and so is Mom, that's, like, twice the chance I get a car for my birthday." Junior grins, and Walt can't help but laugh, because apparently Junior has a promising future career as an evil mastermind.

#

Saul starts promoting their quaint little shop in his commercials as a quick aside, which brings in a steady flow of customers, although Walt wishes their clientele wasn't so, uh, ethically questionable. But beggars can't be choosers, so he doesn't bitch about it—out loud.

It's five o'clock on a Tuesday, and the place is pretty crowded. Jesse's newest creation—a fruity frappuccino affectionately dubbed "Blue Sky"—has garnered a respectable amount of attention. Jesse's shoving another Blue Sky into the blender when the front door pings. Walt glances up on instinct, freezes when he sees Tuco Salamanca strutting to the counter. Tuco pushes ahead of the queue, and when Jesse turns around he's startled to see that he's not handing the frappe over to the teenager who ordered it.

"Uh, yo, there's a line," Jesse says, rather unhelpfully.

Tuco makes a face, snorts a laugh, and snatches the cup out of Jesse's hands. Walt tries unsuccessfully to set Tuco on fire with his mind. Tuco takes a long sip, then he smacks his lips. "Whoo! That kicks! That is tight, man!"

Walt sidles up to Jesse and fixes Tuco with a glare hardened by years of working in the public school system. "Gus made it very clear that you're not allowed in here."

Tuco glares back but sees that Walt isn't backing down, so he flicks his gaze to Jesse where his intimidation techniques succeed with flying colors; Jesse looks like he might pass out or piss himself, maybe even a combination of both. "Outside. Now," Tuco orders.

Jesse swallows thickly, backs away from the counter. He angles his head so he can whisper in Walt's ear without Tuco reading his lips. "The recipe for Blue Sky is Strawberries and Crème—orange refresher, not strawberry purée—one pump peach, one pump raspberry, one scoop vanilla bean powder, three pumps crème base."

Walt nods and gets started on filling the orders while Tuco leads Jesse out the back door. Jesse wonders if he should think something profound right now, because these are probably his last moments and he doesn't want to waste them on something stupid.

"I got a little business proposition for you," Tuco starts, still sucking down the frappe. Maybe he'll get a brain freeze and Jesse can run back inside and lock the doors.

"Alright, shoot." Fuck, why did he say that? Tuco's the kind of guy that would take that literally.

Tuco grins. His grill gleams in the sunlight. "How about you come work for me?"

"Y—you mean at Vamonos?"

"No, at the fuckin' car wash. Of course Vamonos!"

Jesse wilts under his rage.

"You make good shit. Better than my cousins. They're good people but shitty cooks."

"Then just hire better cooks," Jesse says, like it's obvious.

"That's what I'm doing here, man!" Tuco gestures to Jesse with his free hand.

Jesse shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rubs the back of his head. "Look, I appreciate the offer, but I like this place. Mr. Fring's a good boss, the hours are great, the people are nice." He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm not lookin' to turn my back on them."

Tuco scoffs. "Is it the money? 'Cause whatever he's paying you, I can do double."

Jesse has a nagging feeling that's a bluff. Surely it's not that difficult to just find somebody who can bake; this stems from the bad blood between Tuco and Gus. "Yeah, that's not—that's not really the issue here. Why do you want me anyway?"

"Some _putas_ came around braggin' how somebody here was getting' promoted. Ain't too hard to figure out they meant you." 

Jesse shuts his eyes in pain. Goddamn it, he can't tell Badger or Combo or Skinny Pete _anything_.

Tuco studies him for a moment, takes another gulp. It's hard to look sinister and threatening while drinking out of a straw, but Tuco manages pretty well. "He made you get clean, didn't he? Fring?"

Jesse feels his stomach dive. "N—no." The Geiger counter could measure the quake in that one word.

"What is it? Black tar? Coke? Crystal?"

Jesse bites his lips together. "How'd you know?"

"I got a sixth sense or some shit. I can just tell by lookin' at somebody."

"Isn't that, like, profiling?"

Tuco just glares at him. "What's your vice?"

Jesse answers before he can stop himself. "Crystal. But I don't do it anymore."

"What if I told you I could get you some? In addition to double what Fring's paying you?"

"What part of 'I don't do it anymore' don't you get?"

Tuco laughs; it's a nasty, harsh sound. "But you will. You want to. Nobody gets off that train for good."

Jesse fingers the chip in his pocket, thinks about how disappointed Walt, Gus, and Mike would be if Jesse relapsed now. He shakes his head. "Nah, man. I'm sorry. I appreciate the offer, but I'm gonna stay here."

Tuco nods a couple times and turns away, and for a brief moment it seems like he's going to take no for an answer. But then he whirls around, and Jesse sees that the lid is missing from the frappuccino cup.

Oh shit.

It happens before Jesse can duck or try to move out of the steps closer and slings the cup forward. Blue slush flies at Jesse, splattering across his neck and chest and staining his crisp, yellow hoodie. The liquid soaks through the material and saturates his t-shirt. Tuco roars with laughter as he drops the lid and now empty cup at Jesse's feet and struts away.

Jesse stands there, soaked in blue sugar, shaking madly, his teeth gnashing against the inside of his cheek. He thinks about grabbing one of the fractured pieces of concrete and chucking it at Tuco's head, but his muscles are tight with fury and his eyes are cloudy. Fuck this. This is not right, goddamn it.

Jesse shoves the back door open and storms inside the employee lounge. He rips off his wet apron and throws it on the floor before a sob chokes its way out of his throat. Fucking dickhole. The lounge door opens behind him. "Jesse?" Walt asks with concern. "What happened?"

Jesse tears off his ruined hoodie, slaps it onto the floor along with the apron.

"Why are you taking your clothes off?" Walt says in an impossibly small voice.

"Because Tuco's a fucking psycho!" Jesse yanks off his t-shirt like the fabric's personally offended him. Walt watches, his lips parted. Jesse storms over to the cabinets; Victor and Andrea keep spare shirts down here, because they both commute to the café from school. Jesse's fairly sure Victor won't mind if he borrows a t-shirt. It's horrifically plain and smaller than Jesse's used to, but it's not like Andrea's clothes will fit him.

Walt picks Jesse's defiled hoodie off of the floor and studies it. "He threw his drink at you?"

Jesse just growls in reply. This shirt is two sizes too small and he doesn't know what to do with himself. He feels naked and exposed, like Walt can see right through him.

"What did he want?"

"He wanted me to come work for him."

"And I guess you said no."

Jesse nods, keeping his gaze on the floor. "Like I'm ever gonna work for his crazy ass _now_."

Walt's watching Jesse like he holds the world's secrets. "Do you want me to tell Gus?"

Jesse shakes his head. "I'll do it." He grabs his soggy clothes, stuffs them into a plastic bag. "Don't worry, Mr. White. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Walt says. "You've got blue..." He motions to his neck, and Jesse sighs, his entire body getting into the act. "Here, let me." Walt moves over to the sink, reaches for the sponge and dampens it. He begins wiping away the sticky blue residue on Jesse's neck, and Jesse feels a stir of heat in his belly.

He stays focused on Walt's hands, because if Jesse looks at his mouth or his eyes he's going to be tempted to kiss Walt. It would be...justifiable, really. A moment of weakness. Fault of proximity. He likes the way Walt's other hand is cupped around the side of his face; Walt is so far into his personal space right now that Jesse thinks Walt can hear the thoughts in his head. He settles into Walt's hand, heart jumping madly in his chest. There's a comforting, reassuring heat in Walt's touch, and it also feels like the world's caving into itself.

"Gus will take care of everything," Walt murmurs. He tugs at the neck of Jesse's shirt so he can sponge over Jesse's collarbone. Jesse feels the feather-light drag of Walt's knuckles over his chest. "Tuco will never bother you again."

That night after hours, Jesse and Walt are the last to leave. Jesse pushes the front door open and feels the bite of winter. He wraps his arms around himself, but a thin t-shirt is no match for the frigid air that prickles his skin.

"Jesse."

Walt slides the coat from his shoulders and drapes it over Jesse's own. Jesse glances over at him, studies his expression to figure out if this is some sort of test. Walt gives him an encouraging smile, which looks wrong on his face somehow, but Jesse's shivering and his teeth are chattering, so he shoves his arms into the sleeves and tugs the coat tighter around himself; he finds a disturbing amount of comfort in how much it smells like Walt.

Jesse doesn't ask why Mike gleefully reports to Gus the next day that the pipes at Vamonos have burst, doesn't ask why suddenly Badger and Skinny Pete and Combo each have five-hundred extra dollars.

He just knows.


	9. Chapter 9

The shop closes early on Christmas Eve, but inside it's bustling with activity as Walt, Gus, Jesse, Gale, Mike, Saul, Patrick, and Huell toast to the impending holiday and to each other. Jesse loves the strong sense of camaraderie that's developed here; for some of these guys, the only family they have is sitting right here in this café. That's not the most depressing thought Jesse's going to have tonight, but it's up there.

"Mike, why are you even here?" Saul asks over the rim of his mug. "Don't you have a granddaughter to spend Christmas Eve with instead of sitting with us?"

"Consider it an act of charity," Mike says. "'Tis the season and all."

Huell shakes his head. "He got you good, man."

Jesse takes a tray loaded with sweets out of the display case and sets it on the counter. Greedy hands immediately reach out and swipe up cookies and brownies and cupcakes. "Man, you guys just don't even bother with patience, do you?" Jesse teases. "If I had poisoned these, Saul would be dead right now."

Saul stares at him, mouth half full of cookie. "You didn't, right? Please tell me you didn't." He swallows. "Although I would argue that if you did it would be worth it, because that was a damn good cookie."

"Well, Merry Christmas," Jesse says with a smirk. "You're not gonna die."

"You are the worst Santa," Saul grumbles before sneaking an extra cookie off of the tray.

"No, that would be Walter," Gus says tragically. "He's the reason my employees aren't wearing Santa hats right now."

Jesse snorts a laugh. "Oh my God, are you kidding? Damn, Mr. White, why you gotta be like that?"

Saul grins. "Jesus, what did the Christmas spirit do to you?"

"Something dark and terrible, probably," Gale says.

"Well, it's hard to look menacing in a Santa hat," Mike supplies. "Walter's got a reputation to uphold."

"Why don't we all take turns kicking me down a flight of stairs?" Walt suggests through his teeth.

Saul's hand shoots up into the air. "Me first!"

"Hey, I'm his boss," Gus chides. "I get first dibs."

Jesse says, "Aw, man, you guys are cold!" and Walt's mouth does something around the rim of his coffee cup that Jesse thinks is a smile.

It's a little after midnight when Walt and Jesse manage to clear everyone else out of the shop. Jesse's sweeping the floor while Walt wipes down the countertop. He wonders if giving Walt the present he made would be weird. It shouldn't seem strange, but Walt didn't exchange gifts with anyone else, so maybe it would be less humiliating in the long run not to give him anything.

Walt pauses, sighs, looks up at the clock hanging on the wall. "Well, what do you know? It's Christmas."

"Yeah," Jesse says, playing cool. "So, uh, you headin' home now, or..." He lets the end of that sentence taper off into the ether.

"Actually," Walt starts, dragging the word out, "I might have something for you in my car."

A laugh bubbles out of Jesse's throat. "That doesn't sound creepy at all." Walt gives him The Look; Jesse wilts beneath it. "It doesn't, really. Show me?"

After they finish closing up, they cross the parking lot together. Walt's ugly-as-sin Aztek is parked right next to Jesse, and he unlocks the door and reaches inside. Jesse peers around him, trying to get a better look. Walt emerges with a large box wrapped in festive paper. "Merry Christmas, Jesse."

Jesse exhales a plume of breath into the frigid air, stares with caution at the package Walt's holding, like it might do something sinister and horrible to him. "You—you didn't have to..." Standing there like an idiot probably isn't very encouraging. He reaches out and takes the gift; it's heavier than he thought it would be.

"I wanted to," Walt says.

Jesse pulls a face at him. Walt never does anything thoughtful because he wants to; he's coerced through the pressure of social niceties.

Walt smiles at him, hopeful. "Well, go on. Open it."

Jesse's still not sure what he did to merit a gift from Walt, but he tears open the paper to reveal a fancy, high-end kitchen mixer. "Oh my God." Jesse's face hurts from grinning. "What did Mr. Fring tell you?"

Walt's brow furrows in confusion. "Nothing. Why?"

"I figured he told you about the promotion, and that's why you're giving me awesome gifts."

Walt looks equal parts puzzled and grim. "He offered you a promotion?"

"Yeah! Mr. Fring wants to open up a bunch of stores all over, and I'd be making a whole bunch of new recipes and managing shit." So this is a genuine act of kindness from Walter White, prompted by nothing but Walt's own amity toward Jesse. "This is—this is really great, man. Thanks."

Walt makes his best "aw, shucks" face. "You're welcome. I'm glad you like it."

Jesse ignores the self-deprecating part of his brain, because this is as good of an opening as he's gonna get. "Hey, that reminds me. I got somethin' for you too." Before he can ask himself what the hell he thinks he's doing, he sets the mixer in the back seat of his car and grabs his own neatly-wrapped present for Walt. "I didn't know what to buy you, so I just made somethin'." Jesse shrugs like he doesn't care about Walt's reaction to the gift—except he totally does, he just doesn't want to be around to see if Walt hates it; Walt has an entire catalog of facial expressions that have the power to crush dreams. "You should probably wait 'til you get home to open it."

Walt glances down at the box in his hands. "You made it? It's not something gross, is it?"

Jesse's a little offended that's Walt's first thought. "Nah, nothin' like that." At Walt's look of intrigue, he adds, "See, that, like, piques your curiousity. Makes you wanna get home to find out what it is."

Walt nods. "Indeed it does. I'm sure I'll like it, Jesse."

Jesse feels a smile spread on his face. He slaps an affectionate hand on Walt's arm, pops open the driver's side door of his Monte Carlo. "Thanks again, Mr. White. Have a great Christmas."

#

Walt waits a record of five seconds after he gets through the door of his apartment before curiousity gets the best of him. He sets Jesse's gift on the table and rips open the paper. Inside is a wooden box about the size of a cigar box. The wood is a rich mahogany, sanded and smoothed to perfection. He runs his fingers over it, feels some engravings on the sides. Upon closer inspection, the engravings are actually a design: the periodic table of elements.

Jesse carved the goddamn periodic table into the wood. The kid could barely name five of these elements in high school, but they're all here now: hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium...

Walt smiles to himself. There's a bit of heft to the box, as if something's inside. He slides the top open. A rolled-up piece of paper juts out at a jaunty angle. Walt plucks it out and reads it:

_I would make a chemistry joke, but all the good ones Argon._

Inside of the box are individually wrapped cookies, each one shaped and decorated like various chemistry-related objects: a test tube, a beaker, a flask...

Walt wants to steal back his gift for Jesse and exchange it for something better. This makes him feel inadequate.

Awesome, but inadequate.

#

Walt spends Christmas day at his once-home on Negra Arroyo Lane with Skyler, Walter Junior, Hank, and Marie. Skyler's opted for grocery store catering, spreading out pre-made entrees and sides over the table for dinner. Walt has never understood the reasoning for why holiday dinners take place in the middle of the afternoon.

Skyler's always insisted that opening gifts comes last, much to Junior and Marie's chagrin. Hank has no problem with this. He scoops out another helping of stuffing. "So, Walt, how's the coffee business?"

"Oh, uh, great, actually. I've heard the owner's looking to expand."

"I bet it's all 'cause of that kid you got bakin' for you, huh?" Hank chuckles around his beer.

Walt frowns. "Well, it is a _coffee_ shop, Hank. I'm sure the quality of our brew plays a part in this."

Hank gives a dismissive wave. "Yeah, okay. All I ever hear about is how good those damn cookies and brownies are."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. Gomie's got the whole department hooked on 'em."

Walt swallows thickly, hides it with a sip of ginger ale. It's not like he's technically doing anything illegal by spiking Jesse's baked goods, but he really doesn't appreciate the health inspectors breathing down his neck. Too close for comfort. Or maybe it's his own guilt, because if Jesse ever found out... "Is that so?"

"Yeah, so be careful. You never know if we're sneakin' around, lookin' for violations." Hank laughs.

Marie sighs. "Hank, please."

Walt doesn't know whether to feel proud of himself or envious of Jesse's success. Somehow he manages to do both.

Most of the gifts are for Holly, and Walt's kind of impressed that someone who isn't even born yet is so popular, though Marie tends to go overboard on the gift-giving anyway—why does a baby need a tiara? Hank gives everyone a six-pack of his home-brewed beer, except for Junior, who gets gift cards and video games. Junior gifts various books to Walt, where Skyler's twisted sense of humor shines through with expensive bottles of cologne and wine. Marie's in on the bachelor theme too, because she gives Walt a pack of elegant bedsheets with an exorbitantly high thread count.

"It's like sleeping in lotion," she says fervently, and Hank shrugs in what might be agreement.

Walt's amazed no one gave him condoms; Hank would totally have fucking done that. He must not have been in on this year's theme, apparently.

He stays a little longer than he should—than he wants to, really—but he feels like he owes it to them to hang around. But Marie and Skyler are discussing the merits of hypo-allergenic baby bedding, Hank's watching football, and Junior's engrossed in his MP3 player—courtesy of Walt himself—so Walt leaves with short and sweet pleasantries.

He's not sure exactly why he decides to drive past the café on his way home. Maybe he wants something to soften the blow of how his family's moved on from him, someplace that reminds him where he's needed and wanted. A place where someone like Jesse can fill his heart with warmth and love and, fuck, the holiday spirit is getting to him.

He pulls into the parking lot when he notices a light shining from inside the shop. No sense in wasting electricity. But Walt freezes at the sight of that stupid fucking Monte Carlo parked out front, and his heart sinks in his chest.

He opens the front door and hears the bell chime overhead. "Jesse?" No answer. The sweet scent of gingerbread hangs in the air. Walt sees a shadow moving about in the kitchen. He rounds the counter to get a closer look. Jesse's standing there with his back to Walt, bobbing his head along to some silent rhythm while he decorates a gingerbread house. A coffee glass sits at his left, halfway filled with something that looks like cappuccino, but knowing Jesse it's probably hot chocolate. There's a collection of small finished gingerbread houses lined up along the metal counter where he's working, each one meticulously decorated with gumdrops, icing, sprinkles, and candies.

Walt stands in the doorway and watches him work. Jesse's come a long way from the perpetual slacker Walt knew years ago, or maybe he's always had this kind of raw talent, and Walt just wasn't able to nurture it properly.

"Jesse?"

Still no answer. Walt's not a huge fan of being ignored, but he can hear the faint, tinny sound of rap music somewhere, so he ventures a guess that Jesse's wearing headphones and thus can't hear him. He crosses the kitchen tile and taps Jesse's shoulder.

Jesse springs out of his chair like he's been shot, arms flailing as he pulls the earbuds free. "Jesus!" He recognizes Walt, and his posture relaxes almost immediately. Walt feels a bit of pride that Jesse trusts him enough to feel safe with him. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question. What if someone came in to rob the place?"

Jesse gives him a dumbfounded look. "If someone wants to rob a fuckin' coffee shop, maybe they just can't afford a cup of coffee?"

Walt rolls his eyes.

Jesse scoffs and switches off the music. "So answer my question: why are you here?"

"I saw the light on," Walt says lamely. His gaze flicks over to the gingerbread village that Jesse's made himself mayor of. "How long have you been working on these?"

Jesse shrugs and drops down into the chair. "A couple hours, I guess? I dunno."

Walt wants to ask if Jesse's been here all day, because from the looks of things he totally has, but instead says, "They, uh, look nice."

Jesse flashes him a radiant, shy smile. "You think so?"

"Very detailed. Too good to eat, I think." Because Walt doesn't know how to stop the masochistic urge to undercut his compliments.

Jesse takes it in stride. "Yeah, I figured I'd just give 'em as gifts and display the rest in the shop."

"Speaking of gifts...thank you."

Walt always feels a little shy when Jesse smiles like that, open and honest and eager. "No problem, man. You like it?"

He resists the almost reflexive urge to say, "I like _you_." "It's...maybe the best gift I've ever gotten."

Jesse's eyes go wide. "Seriously? Like, excluding all that cheesy shit like the birth of your kids or whatever?"

Walt nods. "It must have taken you a while to make. Is that why you're suddenly an expert on chemistry jokes?"

Jesse grins and doesn't answer that, but he doesn't need to. Walt picks up the glass on the table, studies it. "What are you drinking?"

"Hot chocolate," Jesse says as he goes back to decorating. Walt's not ready for the sweet sting on his tongue when he takes a sip. At Walt's disgruntled noise, Jesse adds, "Yeah, I put amaretto in it, by the way."

And that's what cleaves through Walt's heart like a reaper's scythe. This is the saddest fucking thing he's ever seen. Jesse is cast out and alone on Christmas, with nowhere else to go but this dinky little coffee shop where he works. But in the spirit of the holidays he's toiling away in the middle of the night to make something that might bring joy to others, and trying to drink away his heartbreak at his own loneliness.

Walt realizes in mounting horror that Jesse did the same thing on Thanksgiving; that's why there were so many decorations in the shop the next day.

He breathes in deeply before he says, "Would you like me to make a pot of coffee?"

"I don't like coffee."

Walt looks at him like he's an idiot. "Well, I do. And if I'm going to keep you company, I want something to drink."

Jesse looks bewildered, like he never imagined Walt would voluntarily stay here with him. "It's Christmas. What about your family?" Walt gives him a look that must communicate everything, because Jesse nods grimly and says, "Yeah, go ahead, make a pot."

Walt doesn't know how long he stays there with Jesse; he loses track of time after they start pouring drinks and talking about everything under the sun but their families. Walt might ramble a bit too much about science, but Jesse doesn't seem too bored by it all; it's almost like he's glad to have another living, breathing person in his space saying things at him.

Jesse's gulping down the last of the hot chocolate when Walt asks, "What time is it?"

He digs into his hoodie pocket, takes out his phone to glance at the screen. "Like, one."

"In the morning?"

"No, the afternoon. It just got dark really fast." Walt makes a face. "Why, you got somewhere else to be?"

"I was just curious," Walt says. Jesse yawns, stretches a bit, and Walt ogles the long, lean lines of Jesse's body, the small strip of stomach exposed when his shirt rides up. Why does Walt find everything Jesse does so fucking attractive—with his unreal blue eyes, his smoky, flirty smiles, the way he smells like tobacco and sugar. He wonders what that stubble might feel like between his legs when Jesse's sucking his cock—

"Homo."

Walt tenses up, averts his eyes to look at Jesse and feels the grip of panic, because if he said any of that shit out loud... Then he realizes that he's been caught staring, and Walt feels marginally better about that. But Jesse doesn't look offended. His lips are quirked into a sort of teasing smile, like he's amused—intrigued, maybe?—by the idea of Walt checking him out.

Jesse's clearly amused by what's happening on Walt's face. "Whatever, it happens a lot. It's cool." He spreads a smear of icing on a loose slab of gingerbread and takes a bite. Walt pays rapt attention to the way Jesse licks the crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

"What are you talking about?"

"Guys checking me out." Walt's expression shifts into something bewildered that makes Jesse laugh. "Whatever, man, I don't care that you're gay."

"Who told you that?"

"Uh, you did. Pretty sure you were staring at my crotch five seconds ago."

Walt opens his mouth to argue that he was staring at Jesse's stomach, but realizes that would not be an improvement on the hole he's digging for himself right now, so he grumbles, "You have quite an imagination."

Jesse wiggles his eyebrows and takes another bite. "I bet you do too," he says around a mouthful of cookie. Fuck, there's a little glob of icing at the corner of his mouth that Walt can't stop thinking about licking away. He swallows, says, "You're thinking about it right now, aren't you?"

Walt considers himself a reasonable man, but Jesse Pinkman is his goddamn Achilles' heel, and Walt wants every obnoxious, frustrating, perfect inch of him. He reaches out and fists a hand in Jesse's hoodie, tugging him close so he can cover Jesse's mouth with his own. It feels like falling and flying all at once. He licks at the corner of Jesse's lips, tastes the sugar there. Jesse makes a sound around the kiss but doesn't fight it, just tilts his head up into it, like he wants this just as much as Walt does. Jesse's mouth is sweet and warm and savage against his own, and Walt kisses him until they're both breathless.

Jesse breaks away first, breathing in a little gasp around a grin that probably makes his face hurt. He licks his lips in a way that ought to be a first-class felony, flicks his gaze up to Walt again and says, "Told you," and fuck if Walt doesn't drag him in for another kiss.

He really should have done this a long time ago.


	10. Chapter 10

Walt takes Jesse back to his apartment when their kisses start to bleed into something possessive and needy and consuming. "Nice place," Jesse says after they come in from the cold. Walt slides a hand around the back of Jesse's neck and squeezes, just enough to feel him tense at the touch. He doesn't know how much Jesse wants or how far he can push until they're too far on the cusp of something they can't come back from. He's thought a lot about getting Jesse here, but this is real and terrifying and fills up the room like a tangible thing.

"Jesse," he murmurs.

Jesse turns his head, and Walt's kissing him again, grazing his teeth over the edge of Jesse's jaw hard enough to make him whimper something that sounds a lot like surrender.

Jesse sighs, "Mr. White," and Walt bites at his throat, sucks a kiss that's going to bruise later over his Adam's apple, and somehow Jesse ends up with his back shoved against the front door and his fingers folded around Walt's shirt.

Then Jesse glances down, his lips uncoupled, and Walt follows his gaze to see that his own thigh is shoved between Jesse's legs. So that firm heat Walt's feeling is—

_Oh._

Jesse looks at him, as if anticipating a response, but having Jesse's dick pressed against his thigh has turned Walt's brain to glue, so he just sort of stares at where they're connected. There's a moment of silence where neither of them know what to do, and no one moves until Jesse pushes against Walt's thigh with his hips. His lips bite together to trap a needy sound. Then he rocks into Walt again. And again. And again, until his hands clutch harder in Walt's shirt and his mouth lets out a shaky little moan.

Walt can't do anything but respond to that, shoving his thigh forward to complement the way Jesse's grinding into it. Jesse gasps, a ragged inhale of air, and Walt freezes, making sure he hasn't made some sort of unwanted advance. But Jesse keeps pushing, grateful for the friction. Walt pins him against the wall like he thinks he can crawl through him. Jesse makes an overwhelmed, needy moan and reaches up, grabbing Walt's jaw with both hands and pulling his mouth over his own. He kisses like he talks, with a sort of messy, angry energy, and Walt keeps pumping his thigh into Jesse's thrusts.

Christ, they're having sex; Walt's not as involved as he'd like to be, but it's still sex. He pushes harder, and Jesse drags his nails over the back of Walt's neck and moans, "Mr. White," around his mouth. Walt thinks about shoving his hand down the front of his jeans and just jerking him off now, but he wants Jesse to work for it, to earn it. By the way Jesse's breathing he'll blow his load in the next thirty seconds.

He grips Walt tighter, lifts his hips up a little so he can grind on Walt's thigh in a way that makes him groan unspeakably hot noises. Walt shoves forward again, and that knocks out the last shreds of Jesse's control. Jesse whimpers and jerks his hips through his orgasm, and there's so much here that Walt wants to savor and burn into his memory. Watching Jesse come is the hottest fucking thing he's ever seen—especially the way he bites his lip and moans around it—and Walt wants to make it happen again.

Jesse's grip slackens on Walt's shirt, and he tips his head back against the wall with his eyes closed and lips parted in bliss. He's breathing out quiet, shuddery little sounds into the silence as Walt pushes forward in small pulses to wring out the aftershocks. Jesse's fingers catch on Walt's shirt sleeves and make a lazy attempt to tug him closer. "Fuck," he breathes out. He pries his eyes open, half-lidded, and his mouth pulls into a smirk at one corner. "That was awesome."

Walt just had sex with someone who still says "awesome;" he should probably be disappointed about that, but he doesn't even care—Jesse is fucking perfect and _his_. Walt eases in closer, hesitating now, because Jesse might reconsider this whole arrangement when the post-orgasm lassitude fades. But Walt gets pressed up against him, and Jesse can clearly feel Walt's dick there, because his gaze flickers down and then back up.

"You want me to do you?" There's an innocent sort of filth in it, and Walt loves it. He answers that by crushing his mouth over Jesse's, and Jesse goes momentarily stiff before relaxing into the kiss, like it's their first time all over again.

Walt drags Jesse into the bedroom while Jesse's hands fumble with Walt's belt. Walt reaches down to help him, but Jesse's got it covered, sliding the leather out from its loops and flicking open the button of his pants. Jesse gets them on the bed, plants his knees on either side of Walt's thighs. Walt gasps in startled want when Jesse lays his free hand on his shoulder for balance, tugging Walt's cock out through the little flap in his underwear. Jesse's fingers are hot around him, unpracticed and already slippery with pre-cum. His thumb drags over the head, his fist squeezing with a gentle pressure that makes Walt moan a noise he's going to deny making later. He gets his hands full of Jesse's oversized hoodie to tug him closer.

Jesse wets his lips and flicks his gaze up to Walt's face, trying to read his expression. "Is this good?"

Walt manages a nod. His entire body shudders when Jesse's fist starts its slow slide. It's a little awkward, and obvious that Jesse's never done this for anyone but himself—at least at this angle—but it doesn't matter because Walt's not going to last long at all. His hips buck into Jesse's wrist, and there's a twitch of a smile on Jesse's mouth. Walt shifts between watching Jesse's hand slide up, down, up, down, and watching the look of concentration on his face as he jerks Walt slow and easy. Walt tightens his grip on Jesse's hoodie, biting the inside of his lip to make himself stay quiet, but Jesse's breaking him apart piece by piece with the way his fist opens and closes around his dick. "Jesse," Walt groans, like he's dying. "That's good, Jesse."

Jesse beams and sinks down on his knees a little so he can kiss him, hungry and desperate, like doing this for Walt means that he has to feel it too. His other hand slides around the back of Walt's neck, nails scraping over the skin, and Walt shoves his hips forward, because if he doesn't come right now he might actually die. Walt's gasping, "Jesse," again and again and dripping all over Jesse's fingers.

"C'mon, Mr. White, give it up for me," Jesse coaxes, stroking him faster and pressing kisses over his mouth. Walt breathes hot into the hollow of Jesse's throat, bites at the skin with his teeth. Jesse whimpers and tents his fingers at the tip of Walt's dick, wrenching a moan out of him.

"Fuck, Jesse," he whines, because he's so close, and Jesse's stroking him just right. Jesse's fist slides down to the base of his cock, and Walt comes like it's his first time in years, gasping and jerking his hips as he lets go. His world is vague and fuzzy white, but he can still feel the soft squeeze of Jesse's fist and hot breath over his skin. Walt can't even remember the last time he came like that, orgasmed so hard the world went away for a few blank, blissful seconds. Christ, Jesse's not even _that_ good at handjobs.

His breathing's still shuddery when he opens his eyes. He tips his head up to lock his mouth over Jesse's. Jesse's fingers stroke over him, slick and slippery with cum. Walt reaches up and tugs at the zipper of Jesse's hoodie, and if Jesse notices he doesn't seem to care, too busy catching Walt's mouth over and over until the hoodie slides off of his shoulders. Jesse gasps a short, startled sound, and Walt sweeps a hand underneath Jesse's t-shirt and follows the line of his back. Jesse squirms, swings his legs around Walt's hips and sits in his lap, hands atop Walt's shoulders and fingers curled in his shirt.

Jesse's mouth is all intensity and all-consuming over Walt's own. It's hard to feel anything else but raw, desperate need when Jesse's touching him like this. Walt tugs at Jesse's shirt, exposing the smooth curve of his throat, and he can't help but latch his mouth there and bite at his collarbone. Jesse grunts, his hands falling away, and Walt's about to ask what he's done wrong when Jesse reaches down, catches the bottom of his shirt and pulls it over his head. He tosses it across the room, but all Walt can focus on is the long line of Jesse's body and the way his muscles stretch and pull.

Walt finds his throat impossibly dry.

He's pretty fucking stunned that this is happening, but Walt gets his hands on him, and Jesse sighs out a breath, like he needed Walt to touch him or he'd go out of his mind. Walt skims over Jesse's chest, over his back, and digs his nails in. Jesse grinds in Walt's lap, makes a frustrated noise and pulls him in closer. His skin is hot and jumpy under Walt's hands. Walt presses his mouth to Jesse's chest, tongue trailing over the tattoo there. Jesse tips his head back and moans, drags his nails over Walt's head in a way that feels like trails of fire.

It takes Walt a minute—or five—to finally jerk Jesse's jeans over his hips, because Jesse's body is a thing to be worshipped, and Walt doesn't know if he's going to get this opportunity again. Jesse's got slick, red kisses sucked into his skin by the time he lifts his hips up to help Walt tug his jeans the rest of the way down. Jesse's already hard again, which shouldn't surprise Walt, but it does anyway. Walt reaches back blindly, feeling for the drawer of the night stand, and when he manages to find the bottle Jesse's chest shudders in a panic. "Oh—oh God, Mr. White, I don't—I don't think you're gonna fit. Do we have to—"

"I'm not going to do that," Walt murmurs, and Jesse breathes out in what sounds like relief. He watches everything, watches Walt get his fingers slick and ease Jesse's thighs open just enough to slide a slippery digit in. Jesse gasps a noise that's obscene and grips at Walt's shoulders.

"Oh God..."

"It's okay," Walt murmurs into the hollow of Jesse's throat, "it's okay. You're doing good." Jesse drinks up the praise like a man dying of thirst, and Walt presses in a little deeper, nips at the curve of his jaw to distract him. Jesse claws at his back, rolls his hips into the press of Walt's hand, and Walt's intoxicated by the way Jesse pulls him in, hot and greedy, nails digging into his shoulder as he breathes out, "Mr. White," over and over. Jesse tilts his hips for a better angle, moans out a shuddery sound when one finger turns into two. Jesse's shaking as he steadies himself and straightens up, and he looks so fucking wrecked already. Walt feels his cock twitch at the sight of him, then Jesse's tipping his head down for another kiss that doesn't land quite right, but it doesn't matter because he tries again, finds Walt's mouth and bites at his bottom lip.

Jesse's nails drag over his scalp, and Walt can feel the way he's tensing and twitching around his fingers. "Come on, Jesse, come for me," Walt says before Jesse's mouth crushes against his own, hips rocking back against his hand. He swallows Jesse's moan and tips his head a little so he can murmur, "That's it, like that," at Jesse's ear.

Jesse groans, "Mr. White," gasping in a breath, and their mouths collide again. His hands are shaking, his orgasm like a taut string ready to be plucked, and he's stuttering half-words around Walt's name, cut through with things like, "please," and "yes." Walt pauses for a moment to take this all in; Jesse's a quivering, beautiful mess right now because of him, his dick hard and tight against his stomach.

Walt strokes slow and easy while Jesse mewls out something needy and clutches around his fingers. But Walt doesn't rush, even as Jesse's bucking his hips backwards and begging for it. "That's it, Jesse, come for me. Just like this," Walt says softly. Jesse claws at his shirt and forces their mouths together. Walt wraps his free hand around Jesse's hip, breathes out, "Come on, Jesse, that's my good boy," and Jesse's fucking gone, coming like it's been punched out of him. His whole body's gone tight, and Walt sighs over his mouth and swallows another one of Jesse's moans. Walt's still stroking his fingers inside of him, and Jesse's hips roll back in languid waves to ride it out.

"Shit," Jesse slurs out. His limbs give up entirely, and he slumps impossibly further into Walt's arms like he's trying to melt into him. He's breathing quick against Walt's shoulder, and Walt's a little dizzy too. This is a tricky space where things could easily go wrong, so he doesn't say anything, just presses kisses over Jesse's chest and throat until Jesse pulls Walt's face up to kiss his mouth.

"Was that too much?" Walt asks.

"Hell no, man! That was awesome!" Jesse huffs a laugh and rests his chin atop Walt's shoulder. "I could totally get used to that."

Walt knows that he could too.

#

Walt wakes up to a naked Jesse Pinkman in his bed.

Jesse's sprawled out over half of the mattress, sleeping on his stomach with his arms looped greedily around the pillow. There's a tattoo etched between his shoulder blades that Walt's never seen before. He thinks about running his fingers over it, but he'd rather savor this little cusp of time where Jesse looks pure and innocent and isn't making dumb jokes or saying something ridiculous. Walt wants to bottle this moment and preserve it forever; he thinks he understands how Jesse got sucked into the treadmill of drug abuse, the never-ending search for that perfect high. If moments like these were in pills or needles...Walt could get so fucking _lost_.

Jesse stirs, moans a little sound of contentment into the pillow. His eyes pry open, and Walt drowns in the sea of blue. "Yo," he murmurs, a sleepy smile on the corners of his lips. Jesse's hair is a wild mess that Walt can't bring himself to tame. He actually wants to _make love_ to him. Christ.

Jesse cuddles closer and rests his head on Walt's chest. Walt doesn't try to move away, just lets Jesse use him as a make-shift pillow. Jesse lays a hand over Walt's stomach. "So, are we, like, a thing now?"

Walt smiles at that, because deep down inside he's a ten-year-old girl. "I suppose we are."

"Wow, could you sound less excited about it?" Jesse breathes a sleepy laugh. "I guess you're not a huge fan of all that cheesy couple shit, huh?" He presses his fingertips in, five little points of heat on Walt's skin.

Walt covers Jesse's hand with his own, and Jesse stills like he's done something wrong. "Care to give an example?"

"Going out together, staying in together, breakfast in bed... And I really dig morning sex." Jesse wiggles his eyebrows.

Walt feels the slow burn of want.

"But," Jesse says, dragging out the word as his hand lies flat, "since you think that kind'a stuff's lame, you don't get to experience my bitchin' pancake recipe."

Did Walt just talk himself out of pancakes? "I didn't say no to any of these things."

"That's the spirit." Jesse pats Walt's chest before sitting up and folding at the waist to retrieve his boxers off of the floor. Jesse wiggles his hips a little as he gets dressed, and Walt refuses to believe that wasn't for his benefit. He pads out to the kitchen while Walt finds his pants discarded haphazardly on the floor.

When Walt gets into in the dining room, he sees Jesse gazing out the window in wonder like a child on Christmas morning. "The snow's melting," Jesse says, and Walt can hear the frown in his voice.

"It was nice while it lasted." Walt comes up behind him and lays his hands on Jesse's impossibly tiny waist. Jesse startles at first but relaxes into the touch, tips his head back against Walt's shoulder. Walt breathes him in and feels the world go still for a moment or two. He hadn't realized how much he missed this kind of intimacy until now, the silent, comfortable little moments hiding in the mundane. "So, how about those pancakes?"

Jesse grins and slithers out of Walt's embrace to make his way into the kitchen. "Alright, now we're talkin'." He starts searching through cabinets and the fridge for the proper ingredients. Walt wonders if there's something profound in how he's exchanged one gorgeous, blue-eyed blonde who makes him breakfast for younger, more penis-y model. He must have a type.

"Yo, what's the deal with Captain Nerd?" Jesse asks as he's mixing ingredients together. Walt makes an attempt to help, but Jesse nudges him away. "I got this."

"You mean Gale?"

"Yeah. You ever notice he's always kissin' your ass like it's his job?"

The corner of Walt's mouth tugs into a smile. "It sort of is. For the first few months I worked there, Gus was trying to get us together."

Jesse drops the wooden spoon he's holding in shock. "You and Gale?" He snickers, doubles over with laughter. "Oh man, that's—that's—I can't even imagine that! Why would Mr. Fring try to hook you up with Gale?"

Walt shrugs. "I think he wants to give people a chance at the happiness he had himself with Max."

Jesse bites his lip and stares down at the counter in thought, because, oh yeah, Max died and took half of Gus' heart with him.

"He wasn't very subtle about his intentions once you showed up," Walt adds.

Jesse looks amused. "Seriously? So, what, we're some sort of weird lab experiment Mr. Fring's got goin'?"

Walt admits, "He didn't have to push me in your direction," and the flush on Jesse's face is _totally_ worth Walt's fleeting chagrin.

A knock on the door makes them freeze and look at each other. "You got some other fuck-buddy you haven't told me about?" Jesse says with a lilt of a smirk.

Walt opens his mouth to contest that, but he's already reached his daily quota of emotional breakthroughs, so he says nothing and gets up to answer the door. He peers through the peephole and, _oh no_.

Fuck.

Shit.

Walt spins around and rushes to Jesse. "You need to hide."

Jesse's mouth drops open. "I was right? Dude, I was just kidding! Are you serious?"

Walt shakes his head. "It's Skyler—my ex-wife. She _cannot_ see you here!" He's dragging Jesse down the hall and into the bedroom.

"She doesn't know you're into guys?"

Walt holds on very tightly to the words, "Neither did I." Instead, he grabs Jesse's clothes off of the bedroom floor and shoves them into Jesse's arms. "Just get dressed."

Jesse looks like he's been gutted. "You want me to leave?" Jesus, with that tone of voice you'd think Walt just kicked a puppy.

"No, no, just...give me a minute, okay?"

Jesse nods, yanks his jeans over his hips. Walt manages to stop staring long enough to walk out of the room, shutting the door behind him before he answers Skyler's impatient knocking. "Sorry, I was on the phone."

Skyler gives him her patented "so done with your bullshit" stare and lets herself inside. She looks him over. "Are those the same clothes you wore yesterday?"

Walt opens his mouth, closes it.

Skyler lifts her eyebrows in a particularly judgemental way. "I guess you liked the wine."

Walt's first instinct is to argue that he didn't drink last night, but that opens up so many potentially humiliating avenues that he's not ready to explore yet. "It's good to see you too, Sky."

She unzips her purse and reaches inside. "Remember how we used to find a couple stragglers the day after Christmas?" Skyler hands him a small box wrapped in glistening paper. "This time it's for you instead of Junior."

Walt's curiousity leads him to tug the wrapping open, and— "Condoms. Really?"

"It was Hank's idea." 

"I knew it," Walt growls.

"Don't be such a grouch. You're a bachelor; you actually get to use these now." Skyler taps a perfectly-manicured fingernail on the box, whispers, "They're ribbed for her pleasure."

Walt hates Hank a little right now. Hank is dead to him. "Did you come here just to give me condoms?"

"Yes. Yes, I did," Skyler says seriously. Walt notices the familiar silver necklace he'd given her for Christmas draped around her throat, a sapphire bauble hanging from the chain. Skyler sees that he sees it, and her cheeks flush pink as her hand flies up to her chest to cover the jewel. "It matches my blouse."

Walt feels the pieces come together in his head. "I see your game. The wine, the condoms, the sheets. This is all a ploy to get me back, isn't it?"

Skyler gasps, scandalized. "Wh—what? Why would you—How do you even—No!"

"You heard about the shop expanding its business last night, and you realize you made a stupid, thoughtless mistake presenting me with those divorce papers."

"A mistake? Walter, you were out of the house before the ink was dry!"

"You just can't accept that I'm successful now, that I call the shots in my own life!"

"Do you even listen to yourself? What—"

They freeze, mouths agape and silent as rap music blares from tiny speakers in the bedroom. Skyler fixes Walt with a look, and Walt turns his head in the direction of the sound. "That—that must be my alarm."

He rushes down the hallway with Skyler hot on his heels. That's when Walt sees that the music's coming from Jesse's phone—which he's left lying on the bed. Skyler knows Walt's face well enough to know he's hiding something—or some_one_. "Your alarm. On your second cell phone?"

"I could have two," Walt argues. "Y'know, for work."

Skyler clearly isn't buying that. "What a shame; those condoms would've come in handy last night."

Walt shuts his eyes in pain.

"Is she here? I want to meet her."

Oh God. "Uh—I—I don't think that's a good idea." Skyler ignores him, heads in the direction of the bathroom. "Skyler, wait!"

Skyler swings open the bathroom door, and, fucking Christ, Jesse's caught trying to hide behind the shower curtain—fully clothed, at least. Jesse gives them a sheepish smile. "Yo."

Walt scrubs a hand over his face.

"Yo," Skyler says with caution. She glances back at Walt, then at Jesse again, as if asking for an explanation. Walt can't blame her; if he found some random dude in their bathroom he'd be asking some questions too.

In a moment that Walt's mistaken for brilliance, he says, "Skyler, this—this is Jesse. He sells me pot."

Jesse's smile falls away, replaced almost immediately by devastation. He looks like he's been slapped, and Walt feels the sting of his lie reflected on Jesse's face.

"Pot?" Skyler doesn't seem like she's in disbelief, because Walt's a study in mid-life crises, so clearly anything is possible. But she does appear to be judging him for being stupid enough to let her actually discover his little secret. "You're buying pot the day after Christmas?"

"That's when all the sales are," Jesse says, attempting to be helpful. Walt honestly thought he couldn't feel more mortified.

Skyler studies Jesse for a moment, sizing him up, searching for a thread to pull in Walt's lie. Jesse's eyes go wide with fear. "And you let him inside?"

"It's not a crime to be friends with your dealer," Jesse says with offense. Walt thinks Jesse's falling way too deeply into the role he's playing here.

"Friends," Skyler repeats, suspicion around the word. She lets out a surprised little sound and shakes her head. "I should—I should go."

Dread wraps around Walt's chest as he follows her to the front door. "But you just got here."

"Clearly I've interrupted something, and I have a sister who would just _love_ to know all about this."

Walt's jaw drops. There is no way Skyler could be that evil. "Are you trying to punish me?"

She laughs an actual, genuine laugh he hasn't heard from her in ages. "_Punish_ you? Walter, this is—so many of the things that have happened over the last few months make so much sense now. It's like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders." She places a hand on his arm. Her touch doesn't burn him the way Jesse's does. He wonders if it's because of the familiarity or something else entirely. "So, no, I'm not punishing you: I understand you."

Walt doesn't know what's going on anymore, but there's a sick feeling brewing in his gut anyway. "You _cannot_ tell Marie."

"I've got divorce papers that say otherwise," Skyler says with a tight smile before she leaves.

Through the window, Walt watches her walk to her car and dig her cell phone out of her purse. "Oh, come on, Skyler, at least wait until you're out of the driveway!"

"What's she doing?" Jesse asks, shuffling into the living room.

"Calling her sister."

"Is her sister a cop?" Jesse panics.

"Worse—a gossip."

"How is that worse?" he asks in a way that says he knows exactly why, he just wants to hear Walt say it out loud.

Walt's human enough to know he should feel guilty for that. He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. "I don't want people knowing my private affairs."

"And that would be what? Buying pot from me or fucking me?"

"Jesse..."

"No, c'mon, I think I deserve a straight answer! Why are you ashamed of me? She's your ex-wife; why should you give a shit if she knows you're sleeping with somebody else? She probably is too!"

"Jesse," Walt growls, like he's restraining himself from doing or saying something awful.

"This is bullshit! You think I wanted this? I fall in love with your miserable, ungrateful ass and this is how you treat me? You can't just use me up and then throw me out like trash, alright? I'm worth more than that." The fury in Jesse's eyes snuffs out like a plug's been pulled. He glances down at his feet and rubs a hand over his face in a way that's clumsy and defensive. "At least I should be."

Walt's having genuine trouble with this, because Jesse's just admitted that he loves him, and Walt feels things slot into place that weren't there before, things that are deeply confusing and make perfect sense all at once. "You love me?"

Jesse shuts his eyes in pain, as if he expects to be mocked or yelled at for this. "Forget it." He makes for the door, but Walt stops him with a gentle, firm hand curled around his arm.

"No, no forgetting, Jesse. Is that how you really feel?"

"What, that every time you do something nice you gotta do something that, like, cancels it out? Just to remind me of how much of a dick you can be?"

"I don't _have_ to," Walt says, because of course that's the part he focuses on. Jesse's expression tells Walt his words aren't helping. "Alright, look, Jesse, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for whatever I've done or said that's given you the impression that I don't want this—that I don't want _you_. Because I do. Very much. It's new and different and frightening, so you have to help me here and tell me what you want, because if you don't I can't possibly know."

Jesse nods, frown still tight on his mouth and between his eyebrows, but he seems to be mulling it over. "I don't want you to be ashamed of me. If we're gonna do this, you can't—you can't be hiding me when your family comes over or whatever. Own up to your shit."

Walt feels oddly defensive about Jesse referring to himself that way, however casually, but he lets it go, says, "I can do that." He wraps his hands around Jesse's wrists and tugs him closer so he can kiss his mouth. "I just got overwhelmed this morning. I haven't done a lot of thinking about this—this part of it. I never thought we would get this far."

Jesse stares up at him in awe. "You thought about us?"

"More than I should have," Walt says, and it hurts to admit.

Jesse smiles, like no one has ever thought about him that way before. He moves in closer, and Walt curls a hand around the back of Jesse's head, fingers threading through his hair. "How come you never told me?"

Walt scoffs.

Jesse chuckles, and Walt can feel the heat of his breath through his shirt. "Okay, I get why you didn't say anything. It's like pulling teeth from the goddamn root to get you to talk about your feelings."

Walt thinks that's pretty accurate.

After breakfast, Jesse grabs his phone off of the bed and checks the missed calls. Walt's got his arms locked around Jesse's waist, mouth latched at the back of his neck. Jesse sighs, leans back into the hard line of Walt's body. He presses a button, listens through the rings. "Yo, it's me."

Walt thinks he hears Mike's voice on the other end, but he can't be totally sure. His fingers dig in to Jesse's hips a little harder. Jesse's skin tightens at the touch, and he grinds his ass against Walt's crotch.

"Yeah, everything's cool," Jesse says into the phone. "I was in the shower."

Walt smirks to himself. Not a total lie.

"So, hey, listen, I'm, uh, I'm gonna have to take a rain-check on that. I'm sorta...booked up today," Jesse says, and Walt can hear the quiver in his voice. He edges his fingers underneath Jesse's shirt, pushing at the loosened edge of his jeans. Jesse sucks in a tiny breath and reaches back, wraps his free hand around Walt's forearm. "No, no, c'mon, man. Nothin' like that... Yeah, I will. You too. Alright. Peace." He snaps his phone shut and turns around so he's facing Walt. "Well, looks like I'm all yours today."

Jesse's mouth is so close Walt can't do anything but crush his own against it.

#

Walt and Jesse slink into the shop the next morning like they've committed some unspeakable crime they're ashamed of. Gale glances up from behind the counter, sees Walt, and smiles. "Walter, good morning! I started the first pot of the day. I hope you don't mind."

Walt holds his hands up as if to say, "don't worry about it." "Good initiative."

Gale notices that Jesse's there too. "Did you two carpool today?"

Jesse smirks at Walt with lips that have covered almost every inch of him. "Yeah, you could say that."

Walt wishes Jesse had let him answer that, because Gale probably noticed Jesse's car is in the lot this morning. But Gale doesn't question it, and Walt moves behind the counter just as Gus pushes out of his office. "Oh, Walter. Just the man I'm looking for." He sees Jesse, gives him a cordial smile and a nod. "Jesse."

Jesse does the same before turning to the counter; Walt notices a flush creep up his neck.

"Step into my office, if you don't mind." Walt does as Gus asks and opts to stand—this probably won't take very long. Clearly, Gus has a question about inventory or deployment sheets or— "Was your experience satisfactory?"

Walt blinks. "What?"

"You and Jesse."

Walt feels his heart in his throat. "What are you talking about?"

"You're a smart man, Walter. Don't make me spell this out."

Walt tries to speak, but words are failing him spectacularly right now.

"Jesse's car has been parked in our lot since yesterday. Coupled with the way you two have been growing closer, exchanging friendly banter, and staying after hours, your arriving together now certainly makes it all clear, doesn't it?"

Walt opens his mouth, closes it. "That doesn't—that—you're reaching, Gus."

"I don't think that I am. You were very concerned for him when he missed work, concern that does not seem to extend to Gale."

Walt searches for a thread to pull in Gus's theory. He doesn't find one, so he's going to go with Plan B and just blame Gus entirely for this. "You hired Jesse because we had, and I quote, 'chemistry.'"

Gus smiles and gives a small shrug. "I hired him because of his skill. The chemistry is just a bonus."

"Most employers don't encourage this kind of fraternization."

"Then you should be happy I am not like most employers."

"So, what's the point of all this? Are you firing us?"

Gus lifts his eyebrows like he's appalled by the very idea. "Heavens no."

"Then this little talk is, what, to embarrass me?"

"If I wanted to embarrass you, I would have strung a huge sign out front reading, 'Congratulations, Walt and Jesse!'"

Walt's eyes go wide. "Never, ever do that."

Gus grins. "I make no promises."


	11. Chapter 11

Marie shows up around one in the afternoon looking absolutely scandalized all the way up the queue. Walt tries to pass her off to Gale when she arrives at the counter, but Marie snags Walt before he can leave. "Oh no, mister. I'd like to have a word with you." 

Walt sighs. "Will that be all?"

Marie studies the menu for a moment. "Medium cherry white chocolate."

Walt groans, because that's a frappuccino—Jesse's area of expertise. "One moment." He scribbles the order on the side of the cup and sticks his head into the kitchen. "Jesse?"

Jesse takes the cup and jogs out to fill the order. But that's when Marie puts two and two together. "_Jesse_?" He whirls around, looking like the cat that ate the canary—although in this situation the canary is probably Walt. "Of Walt and Jesse?"

Do people actually call them that, like they're a cheesy '70's pop duo? Move over, Simon and Garfunkel; watch out, Captain and Tennille—Walt and Jesse are on the scene.

"Okay, I can definitely see the appeal," Marie says with an appraising look on her face. Jesse doesn't say anything, but his expression bleeds terror out of every pore. "I'm Marie, by the way—Walt's sister-in-law. I've heard a lot about you."

"All good, I hope."

Marie looks a little sheepish, and Walt nudges Jesse to gets him started on the drink. "What did Skyler tell you?" Walt asks Marie in a grumble.

"Just that you had a new blond you'll be using those condoms and sheets with."

"Oh my God." Jesse nearly drops the cup on his foot.

Walt groans. "Jesus, Marie. A little tact, please?"

She waves a hand like he's being irrational. "I just had to come over here and see for myself, especially when she told me 'Jesse' is a he."

The blender starts up its familiar mating call. Walt leans on the counter to talk to her over the noise. "Did you really come in to my place of business to humiliate me?"

"Humiliate you? Walt, I'm proud of you! He's very pretty." Walt is so glad Jesse can't hear this conversation. "And at your age! I mean, how do you keep up?"

She can't possibly want an actual answer to that question. "Does Hank know?"

Marie just gives him a look. Hank _totally_ knows...and Hank has actually met Jesse. Shit.

The blender's shriek dies down into silence. Jesse tops the drink with whip, pink and white chocolate shavings, and strawberry powder before handing the cup to Marie. "Here ya go."

Marie grins at Walt. "Oh, and so polite too!" At Walt's furious expression, she says, "Would you relax? I'm just giving you a hard time. C'mon. I'm Skyler's sister first, and your friend second."

"Where is Hank in all of this?"

"Okay, so you've been demoted to third place." She pats Walt's arm. "Proud of yourself?"

Walt just grumbles and takes her crisp five-dollar bill before she walks out the door. "Still want me to, and I quote, 'own up to my shit'?" he says to Jesse.

"Absolutely. You're cute as hell when you're embarrassed."

Walt thinks he's going to be goddamn _adorable_ by the time Hank and Junior find out.

#

A half hour after close on Monday night, Walt notices a missed text from Jesse: _**you must be made of uranium and iodine... cuz all I can see is U and I ;)**_

Walt makes a groaning noise that becomes a laugh about half-way through, because try as he might he just can't resist being charmed by Jesse's frustratingly entertaining sense of humor. He'd miss these silly messages if they stopped happening. Walt doesn't know why that thought fills him with so much dread.

He peeks into the kitchen just in time to catch Jesse sneaking a couple spoonfuls of cookie dough off of the log in the fridge. "Jesse?"

Jesse startles and bangs his head on the freezer door as he straightens up. "Ow! Fuck!"

"You know you're not supposed to eat raw cookie dough."

"Eh, eat me," Jesse grumbles, then: "Oh shit, I can't say that anymore; you actually might."

Walt moves in closer. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Jesse's face flushes; Walt still takes a fair amount of pride in that despite it being relatively easy to do. Jesse drops his gaze to the roll of dough he's holding and digs his spoon in again. Before Walt can begin about the dangers of salmonella, the spoon is shoved into his mouth, quelling any protest. Walt frowns around it to show his disapproval.

"Oh, c'mon, unclench already. I've been eatin' this stuff raw for, like, years and I haven't died."

The corner of Walt's mouth quirks upwards. "So, you're saying you like it raw?"

Jesse grins. "Mr. White's got the jokes today."

Walt feels like Jesse ought to just call him "Walt" at this point, but he can't help but like the authoritative sound of "Mr. White." He's really glad he didn't explore this teacher/student kink until he stopped being a teacher. "Who says I was joking?"

Jesse draws in a shaky, shuddery breath; his face is an awesome shade of red right now. Walt waits patiently for one of Jesse's signature smart-ass comebacks, but apparently Walt's flirtation has knocked Jesse's brain off its tracks. Jesse fumbles with the spoon, edges off another piece for himself before he asks, "So, uh, you wanna, like, hang out or somethin' tonight?"

"'Hang out'?"

"Yeah, y'know, chill out, watch a movie, play Xbox..." Jesse runs out of examples and shrugs. "People usually do stuff together on New Year's—unless you already got somethin' planned." His eyes are wide like he's afraid he's trampled on some sort of boundary.

"Don't you have any other friends?" Walt teases, but he's not ready for Jesse's response to that.

"Not really."

The words strike Walt like a mighty blow. "What about Beaver and what's-his-name?"

Jesse shrugs, takes a step back and leans against the fridge. "They use," he says simply.

"They left because you wanted to get clean?" God, that's messed up.

Jesse shakes his head and takes another spoonful. "_I_ did. I hang out with 'em sometimes, but not as much as I used to. They're totally cool with it." He gives Walt a half-smile around a mouthful of cookie dough. "Guess you're stuck with me."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Jesse snorts and smiles like an idiot, and Walt feels pieces of himself settle into place.

#

Jesse makes a rather pathetic attempt at cleaning up his place before Walt's supposed to arrive. It's not as if his house is dirty, it's just really messy and cluttered with things tossed haphazardly in places they don't belong. He tidies up the usual suspects: the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. Then he realizes in horror that Walt's his boyfriend now, which means they might end up in the bedroom.

Jesse's racing up the stairs as an impatient knock that could only belong to Walt makes him stumble and nearly topple over. Walt looks grumpy when Jesse swings the door open, as if the ten seconds it took him to answer it were simply too long to wait. "Yo, I was just, uh, fixin' up the place," Jesse says, slightly out of breath.

Walt doesn't wait to be invited, just barges in as he's prone to doing. Jesse notices that Walt's wearing different clothes than he was wearing earlier today at the café. He doesn't know what to do with that piece of information. Maybe Walt wanted to look especially nice tonight? Jesse's mouth clearly has no connection whatsoever to his brain, because he blurts out, "So, you look hot," then immediately wishes he could grab the words back.

"Thank you, Jesse." It doesn't sound like Walt's second-guessing this whole "dating Jesse" thing, but that doesn't mean he's _not_. "Incidentally, so do you."

Jesse tries to pretend like it's not a huge fucking deal to get a compliment from Walt. "Thanks." He gets the urge to kiss Walt; that's a thing he can do now, and he should totally take advantage of this newfound privilege. He moves in closer, gets his hands full of Walt's jacket and brings their mouths together. It's a little slow and awkward, but Walt doesn't seem to judge him for it, just kisses him harder and wraps his hands around Jesse's hips.

Jesse gasps out, "Mr. White," around Walt's mouth, and Walt pushes a hand underneath Jesse's t-shirt, thumb grazing a nipple. Jesse's not proud of the sound he makes at that, but Walt must appreciate it because he's sucking kisses into the line of Jesse's throat like his life depends on leaving physical evidence that he was here. His hands are everywhere at once—Jesse's hips, his ass, his chest—and all Jesse can do is grab on to Walt and pull him in tighter.

Walt's breathing, "Jesse, Jesse, I need..." into the space between them as he pushes at the edge of Jesse's jeans, trying to shove them over his hips.

Jesse feels the heat of Walt's hands sliding under his thighs. "Jesus, that's—oh, fuck—" There's hot palms wrapped around his ass, and Jesse has no idea how to cope with that. He loves that Walt can't help himself, but Walt's stamina leaves a lot to be desired. Jesse gives a short tug on Walt's elbow and guides him up the stairs. "Don't waste it, c'mon."

If Jesse was worried about Walt judging the state of his bedroom, he shouldn't have wasted the energy. The only thing Walt's focused on right now is taking Jesse's clothes off as they get into the bedroom. Jesse falls back onto the sheets, pulling Walt down with him, and his legs immediately hook around Walt's hips. Walt peels Jesse's t-shirt off, then he's got his hands shoved inside Jesse's boxers. As Jesse fumbles with the buttons on Walt's shirt, his hands skim over skin before he's tugging at belt loops to pull Walt closer and unfasten his stupid fucking belt. Walt tugs Jesse's shorts down his legs, and Jesse kicks them off.

He's lying underneath Walt completely naked. His heart slams against his ribcage, because every panic signal in his body tells him to be self-conscious—Walt's eyes are locked on his own like he can see all the atoms and cells that make up Jesse's shaky, stupidly aroused body. But Walt kisses him again, savage and aggressive, like this is something that he wants, like Jesse's earned this through the gravity of his own awesomeness, and the apprehension falls away like it's been cut out of him.

Jesse pushes his hand down the front of Walt's pants and grips his cock. Walt growls a rumble of want into Jesse's open mouth that makes something curl low in Jesse's gut, warm and tight. Jesse shoves Walt's pants down and out of the way, because he's wanted to have sex with Walt for too long, and he's not going to waste this golden opportunity on a handjob.

Now they're both naked, Walt's weight on top of Jesse and his hands wrapped around Jesse's thighs. Jesse thumps his heels at the small of Walt's back. "C'mon, Mr. White," he breathes out, words shaky in his throat. "Fill me up."

Walt just stares right through him in a way that Jesse can feel in his bones. He licks his lips and crushes his mouth over Jesse's, and Jesse is going to have beard burn _everywhere_, because Walt's kissing his throat, the tattoo on his chest, his stomach, the inside of his thighs. Jesse lifts his hips up, desperate for some sort of friction or contact, or maybe even Walt's mouth opening around his cock, and, no, Jesse cannot think about that anymore or his body's going to give up and go home.

His dick's tight against his belly while Walt's mouth glides over Jesse's inner thigh. The sandpaper scrape of Walt's beard so close to Jesse's dick makes his insides twist into a confused knot of arousal. "C'mon, please," Jesse begs, hands sliding over Walt's head to try to pull him closer; he feels so wide open already it's unreal. "I need it. I need you."

Apparently, those are the magic fucking words, because Walt slides up Jesse's body and snatches a condom off of the night table. "Finally," Jesse grumbles, but there's no heat to it. Walt moves in between Jesse's knees, grabs onto his thighs when his own hands are free. Jesse thinks hooking his legs over Walt's shoulders might make this easier, and it does; when Walt slides inside of him in one smooth stroke, Jesse doesn't even bother stopping the moan that tumbles out of his mouth. There may even be some begging involved. He can tell he's not going to last very long at all, because it doesn't hurt like he thought it would, and his body fucking _loves_ it. His toes curl, and Walt stares down at him, giving him time to adjust.

"Jesse," Walt says, dry and raspy, his hands caught under Jesse's thighs, and Jesse can just feel how badly Walt wants to fuck into him.

Jesse nods, says, "Yeah, c'mon," and reaches up, gets Walt's mouth down over his own. Walt starts shoving into him, heavy and hot, and Jesse moans into his mouth until Walt makes it impossible to talk by way of wet, clumsy kisses. Walt breathes out Jesse's name like he's intoxicated on the way their bodies fit together; Jesse drinks up the praise, fingers curling at the base of Walt's neck while they move together in greedy pushes. Jesse's moaning, "Mr. White," strangled and cracked in his throat, and he feels a clench and twist in his gut each time Walt drives into him.

Everything about this is so good, but Jesse can't help wanting more and more, his mouth saying as much and his nails biting into Walt's skin. Walt gives him what he needs, slams into him hard enough to shove him up the mattress, but Jesse goes with the movement and grinds into it. Walt's breath shudders out, and he grunts, plants a hand on one side of Jesse's head, fingers gripping the pillow tight. Jesse catches Walt's mouth again, tilts his hips into the sharp thrusts, then it's so overwhelming that Jesse just fucking _can't_ anymore and loses it completely. He moans shivery, blissed-out noises around Walt's mouth as it all shakes out of him. His hips roll in jerky, messy waves, because this is a mutual thing, and he can tell how close Walt is by the way he's breathing.

"C'mon, Mr. White," Jesse coaxes, his hands sliding over Walt's back. "That's it..." He lets Walt take what he needs, their rhythm jagged and full of want as Walt grunts out his name. Jesse digs his hands into the small of Walt's back, feeling his spine flex, and Walt hisses, "Jesse," in a cracked little moan before he breaks apart, shuddering and breathing over Jesse's throat through the comedown.

Jesse sighs out a long breath and melts into the sheets as Walt sprawls over him. Every muscle feels impossibly loose, like taffy that's been stretched past its normal size. His hands slide up and down over Walt's skin while Walt kisses his jawline. He reaches for Jesse's arm, presses his mouth to the inside of Jesse's wrist. Jesse goes still under the touch, but Walt's mouth follows the line of the tattoo on Jesse's forearm in a way that's dirty-hot and perfect.

Jesse's hands find Walt's hips, and he digs his fingers in. "I got another tattoo on my back," he says quietly, voice full of promise. "Maybe next time you could kiss that one."

Walt locks eyes with him, and Jesse feels his stomach drop. "Roll over."

_Holy shit, yes. Fuck yes._ But Walt's definitely not up for a repeat round yet. Jesse lays his hands on Walt's shoulders and sits up, bringing Walt with him. He kisses the confused curve of Walt's mouth, which softens into something more agreeable. "Why don't we get somethin' to eat first?"

By the dawn of the new year, Jesse discovers that the scrape of Walt's beard between his shoulder blades is fucking _magical_.


	12. Chapter 12

Jesse's reaching for an empty cup at the snack table on a Wednesday evening meeting when a thin, porcelain hand covers his own. "Whoops, my bad. Go ahead." He turns his head and sees a tall, dark-haired girl standing beside him; she would absolutely be his type if Walt hadn't come along and destroyed any semblance of predictability in Jesse's love life.

Her ruby lips curve into a smile. "Thank you." She takes the cup, fills it with the piss-poor coffee they've got here. "Killer tat, by the way."

Jesse realizes she's seen the tattoo on his arm. He blushes and fidgets, because he's still a child when it comes to compliments. "Thanks." He grabs his own cup and opts for water.

She lifts a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. "Not a fan of coffee, huh?"

Jesse huffs a laugh. "Nah, not really. Which sucks for me, 'cause I work at a coffee shop."

"Really? Which one?"

"Uh, Los Frijoles Saltarines. Y'know, in that strip mall with the, uh, balloon."

She nods like she knows what he's talking about, curls her thin fingers around the cup. "You work at a coffee shop named The Jumping Beans?"

"Hey, I didn't come up with the name," Jesse grumbles. "I just bake the cookies and brownies and shit." He tries to fend off the awkwardness with a casual segue. "You should stop by sometime. I make pretty awesome stuff. I'm surprised you haven't heard about the place by now."

"Maybe I will...?" She trails off, waiting for him to jump in with an introduction.

"Oh, uh, Jesse."

"Jane." She has a lovely smile, like the kind you see on actresses in black-and-white movies, reminiscent of old Hollywood.

Jesse cranks up the charm. "Well, uh, yeah, come by sometime, Jane, and maybe I'll give you a discount." Clearly, the charm is a little rusty.

"All right, _Jesse_. Nice meeting you." She turns, the curtain of her black hair sashaying as she walks away.

It takes Jesse a moment to remember that he has a boyfriend, a boyfriend who would probably be disgruntled to hear that Jesse was flirting with someone else.

Jane comes into the shop the next evening as promised, and her face lights up in recognition as she approaches the counter. "You look familiar."

Jesse chuckles. "You actually showed up?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Jane gives him a sly smile and places her order—skinny vanilla latte—before Jesse can answer that. She moves over to the sweets case while Gale fixes up the coffee. "So, what do you suggest?" She bends at the waist, surveying the treats on the lower shelves, and Jesse tries not to stare at the way her hair sways in subtle waves.

"Uh, pretty much anything's good. You like chocolate?"

Jane gives him a look that's flirtatious around the edges. "No, I'm the one person on Earth who actually _doesn't_ like chocolate. You found me."

Jesse shrugs. "Hey, you could be." He slides a petite ruffle cake decorated in rosy pink icing out of the case. "Chocolate cake?"

Jane looks at the dessert, then back to Jesse. "Is this how you pick up girls? 'Cause you got a good thing going here." Jesse laughs, and Gale hands over Jane's latte. She pays and takes a seat at a table near the window, hangs her messenger bag over the chair before she sits down. Jesse loiters at the counter for a moment and considers joining her.

Gale sidles up beside him. "I don't mean to intrude, but I think she likes you," he murmurs. "Go over there and talk to her."

Taking relationship advice from Gale probably isn't a wise course of action, because the dude seriously needs to grow some cajones and just ask Walt out already. Except Walt's dating Jesse now, so no. Gale had his chance and he chose to squander it. "Nah, I'm not—" Jesse realizes he should probably tell Gale the truth. "I'm sorta seein' somebody right now."

Gale lifts an eyebrow. "Really? Since when?"

"Since like...Christmas." Dread mounts in his chest. There's still time to lie, but Jesse's kind of a masochist.

"Oh, that sounds romantic!"

"Yeah, it was great. I never thought Mr. White would do somethin' like that."

Gale fixes him with a blank look, blinks a couple times. "What does Walter have to do with it? Did he introduce you..."

"He's, uh, he's the 'somebody.'"

It takes Gale a moment to put the pieces together, but once he does his expression caves in like he's just been told something life-altering and horrible. "You—you and Walter?"

Jesse scrubs a hand over his face. "Yeah, crazy, huh?" Gale looks like he wants to ask why, and if Jesse's honest he's not so sure of that himself. Jesse doesn't know what to say, so he just says, "I'm sorry. I would'a asked you if it was cool, but Mr. White didn't exactly give me much choice."

Walt chooses that moment to stalk out of the employee lounge as if his fucking Spidey Sense lit up like a Vegas casino. He gets a look at Gale's sour expression and immediately assumes Jesse's done something wrong—which is totally un-fucking-fair. "Jesse?"

Gale forces up a smile at them, says, "Congratulations, you two," before tending to the queue.

Walt gives Jesse the look that's questioning his intelligence. "You told Gale?"

"Like he wasn't gonna find out eventually!" Jesse glares at him. "And I distinctly remember having a conversation with you about this whole thing."

"I'm not upset that you told him, I just...doubt you were very tactful about it."

"I was tactful as hell, yo."

Walt gives him The Look, the one that questions how many times Jesse was dropped at birth, and Jesse goes quiet. "Next time, take them out or buy them a drink before you break the news."

"Next time? Is there gonna be a 'next time' I date somebody with a secret admirer?" Jesse realizes he's just admitted to wanting to be with Walt forever, but he plows straight through that with something silly to distract him. "Do they make cards for that?"

Walt sighs and goes to help Gale with the queue. Jesse sees that as his chance, and he slinks over to the table where Jane's sitting and drops into the seat opposite hers. She's already finished half of the cake. "So, what'd'ya think?"

"It's good. Very sweet."

She's got a sketchbook on the table open to an elaborate drawing of something Jesse can't quite identify upside down. "That looks tight," he says.

"Thanks. It's supposed to be a tattoo design." Jane rotates the sketchbook so he can see it properly. On the paper is a wicked-looking skull with snakes wound through the eye sockets and flames in the background.

"Where you gettin' it?"

"Not for me—a client." At Jesse's puzzled look, she adds, "I work at ABQ Ink."

"For real?" He looks at the drawing again. "That's bad-ass."

Jane smiles in appreciation. "You should come by sometime."

"Yeah, maybe. I dunno, I don't really have any ideas." Jesse realizes too late that was Jane's attempt at flirting with him.

"Well, that's my job." She flips through the pages, showcasing more designs, each one as impressive as the last. She takes a sip of her latte while he looks through the drawings, leaves a red ring of lipstick around the rim of the cup. "See anything you like?"

"They're all pretty dope. I gotta think about it though, 'cause I already got, like, three." He watches her face for a reaction. "You're not gonna stop comin' here, are you?"

Jane laughs a melodious sound. "When the coffee and cakes are this good? Not likely."

# 

Walt's giving Jesse the stink-eye that night after close while Jesse's cleaning up the kitchen. "So, I see you met a girl."

"Could you sound more jealous?" Jesse laughs harder at the look of irritated offense on Walt's face. "Chill, she's just somebody I met at my meetings."

"Oh," Walt says firmly. He moves in closer and stands behind him as Jesse's wiping down the kitchen counter. Jesse can sense his presence there, and it's equal parts creepy and hot when Walt just watches him with an intensity Jesse feels crawling over his skin. Walt lays his hands on Jesse's shoulders and presses himself along the line of Jesse's back. He swallows thickly, his hands shaking. "What did you talk about?"

"Not much, just—just tattoos." Jesse's trying to ignore that Walt's dick is shoved against his ass, but he's only human. He turns around so he's facing Walt, leans back with his elbows on the table. "She, uh, she's a tattoo artist." Walt watches him with confused arousal; Jesse seizes the opportunity to fluster him. "You think I should get another tat? You seem to dig the ones I got." He loves the way Walt kisses his tattoos and leaves his skin feeling numb and scratched and awesome. Jesse raises his eyebrows, wraps his fingers around Walt's wrist to bring his hand closer. "How 'bout right here?" He guides Walt's fingers along the line of his inner thigh in a slow and sure slide, his eyes never leaving Walt's face. Walt makes a shuddery noise of want in his throat, and Jesse just has to push, has to stoke the fire. "'Property of Walter White,'" he murmurs, fingers caressing the back of Walt's hand.

Walt sucks in a breath, all coherent thought clearly wiped from his brain. "I would—I would have some qualms about someone who's not dating you touching you like that."

Jesse huffs laughter. "I was tryin' to flirt with you, dumbass."

Walt pulls a face. "Well, you're not very good at it."

"Is that why your dick got the memo before you did?" He brushes his hand over the heat of Walt through his pants.

"No one likes a smart-ass," Walt says through a shaky exhale.

"Pretty sure you love everything about my ass, actually." Jesse's mouth's curved into a coy little smile, and his hands start unbuckling Walt's belt. Then Jesse kneels at his feet, and all of the thoughts in Walt's head come screeching to a halt.

"What are you doing?" he hisses, fighting with Jesse's hands, but Jesse's already got the button popped open and the zipper undone.

"It's just us. Chill."

It's not like Walt hasn't thought about it, but the reality of it actually happening runs the risk of making his brain implode from arousal. Walt's absolutely going to take that risk though. "All right," he says around a cracked whimper as Jesse tugs his dick out. He's hard in Jesse's hand, and Walt manages to sound commanding when he says, "Open your mouth." Jesse obeys, lets Walt slide in; Walt chokes back a noise in his throat and tries not to melt beneath Jesse's lips. It's been so fucking long for Walt, and Jesse sucks cock like he's done it before, which shouldn't turn Walt on as much as it does.

His fingers knot in Jesse's hair. Jesse's mouth works slow and soft around him, his hands coming up to settle on Walt's hips. His tongue runs down the length of Walt's dick, and Walt groans, "Jesse, Jesse," because it's too much already but he doesn't want it to stop. His cock is halfway sheathed in Jesse's mouth, and Walt wants to shove forward and fuck his throat, so much that his hands are clenched into fists in Jesse's hair. Jesse takes him in a little deeper, and Walt chokes out stuttery, embarrassing sounds. Jesse breathes hot flares of breath over Walt's skin. Walt's legs feel like rubber already. He braces himself against the counter, pushes his hips forward, and Jesse takes it like a fucking champ, humming surprise while his lips work around the hilt.

"God, Jesse..." Jesse's mouth is all heat and suction that Walt can't help but shove into. He slides a hand back into Jesse's hair, fingers tight in the golden spikes. "Fuck, that's—that's good..." Jesse's tongue goes flat on the underside of his dick, and Walt bends forward, braced against the counter with one hand while the other tugs and pulls at Jesse's hair. His hips thrust weakly into Jesse's mouth, and he wonders if Jesse can feel how close he is. Jesse makes a noise that Walt feels reverberate in his dick, sucks him off in wet, greedy, messy swallows. Walt's not even making words anymore, just rasping needy syllables cut through with Jesse's name. Walt shudders, air falling out of his lungs each time Jesse's mouth moves on his cock.

There's the barest tickle of teeth running along the underside of his dick, and, that's it, Walt's done for. He tugs at Jesse's hair as his orgasm leaves him shaking and gasping helpless noises. Jesse drinks him down, mouth red and open, and Walt makes sure to watch all of it. Jesse's mouth works softly over the head of Walt's dick, and when he lets Walt slip free his lips are wet and messy.

This—Jesse on his knees with Walt's cum on his lips—is the hottest fucking thing Walt's ever seen in his life. His fingers thread through Jesse's hair, and Walt's still shivering as Jesse smiles up at him, hopeful and a little cocky. Walt smears his thumb over Jesse's lips, slick with his own cum. Jesse takes the digit into his mouth and licks it clean. "Was that good?" Jesse asks in a shaky whisper.

Walt's still remembering how to breathe properly when he says, "It was great, Jesse. You have a...talent." 

"Oh, lucky you." Jesse grins, and Walt tugs him to his feet so he can kiss Jesse's smart-ass, perfect, wonderful mouth.


	13. Chapter 13

Jesse's slowly getting used to waking up next to Walt. It's something he needs to ease into, because most of the time it feels like a dream he hasn't fully woken from, and if it is he wants to stay there as long as he can. There's something very comforting about Walt's presence in his—or Walt's own—bed, like if this tight-ass Lord of the Dicks can be charmed and won over by Jesse's awesomeness, maybe Jesse's not such a colossal fuck-up after all. He has to be doing something right if Walt's kissing him and crushing him close like this.

Jesse grins when Walt's hands skim over his back and dig in like they're trying to pull him apart atom by atom. At his worst, Walt is needy and conceited and domineering, and at his best, well, okay, Jesse's not going to go down that route now, not when Walt's sucking kisses into the corner of his mouth and the skin of his throat. Jesse brings Walt's lips back to his own, and Walt gifts him with lavish, drugging kisses.

Jesse's mouth feels scratched and numb in a way that he apparently goes for now; dating Walt is teaching Jesse so much about himself. There are kinks at work here he didn't even know he had. He laughs, drops his head, and Walt's grip tightens almost imperceptibly. "What?"

"Nothin', I just...never imagined it would be like this. Like, 'hey, nerdiest old dude I know, put your dick in me.'" If someone had told Jesse even a year ago that he'd be sleeping with his high school chemistry teacher he'd think they were horribly brain damaged.

Walt strokes his hands up and down Jesse's sides, steals another kiss before he says, "Is this your subtle way of reconsidering?"

"No way, man. This is awesome. I never thought I'd get to have this." Jesse lets a hand play along the small of Walt's back. "After all the shit I've gone through..." He swallows back a lump in his throat. "It's really cool that I get to have what everyone else does, y'know?"

Walt nods like he understands, and maybe he does.

Jesse shamelessly cuddles closer, because that's a thing he can do now, and Walt doesn't seem to mind it, just gets his arm around Jesse and holds him there, hot and comforting. "You know I've been clean for, like, two months now?" He watches Walt's face for any shred of approval or validation.

Walt smiles and buries a hand in Jesse's hair. "That's good, Jesse. I'm proud of you."

Jesse lifts his head up to look at him. "Seriously? You're not just bullshitting me?"

"Of course I'm proud of you," Walt protests, offended. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"'Cause you're an asshole sometimes," Jesse answers honestly, and Walt has absolutely no right scowling at that. Jesse pokes at his chest. "I said _sometimes_. Jesus, lighten up."

Walt nips at the scratchy line of Jesse's chin. "And yet you're here...with me." He says the last two words in a way that makes desire coil in Jesse's stomach.

Jesse stretches his legs out, murmurs, "Dick too bomb," before tipping his head down to kiss Walt. Walt's mouth and eyebrows are squashed into a hilariously put-out expression that makes Jesse snort a laugh. "Dude, it takes you, like, an hour to get it up again. Obviously, I'm not here for the marathon sex."

"Quality is preferable over quantity," Walt says, and his mouth over Jesse's own is so intoxicating it nearly quells the rest of Jesse's argument. If Walt ever learns how well this particular negotiation tactic works, Jesse is so screwed.

But Jesse loves egging him on, so he says, "Yeah, you would say that when both's not an option." He kisses Walt's frowny mouth and abandons his teasing for now, because he knows when to back off. "We should do something today. I don't think we've ever been on a real, actual date before."

"You'd rather go out than stay right here?" Walt asks, licking his way inside Jesse's mouth, and, oh, fuck, that's good. He makes a valid point.

Jesse moans a sound around the kiss while Walt reaches down underneath the blankets and digs his fingers into Jesse's hips. Jesse decides that Walt is absolutely right in pointing out his idiocy here and throws his arms around Walt's neck, greedy for everything Walt can give him.

Walt has his fist tight around Jesse's dick when he stops and lets his hand fall away as he sits up in bed. "Ugh, what?" Jesse groans, because walking away when he's already hard is just cruel.

Walt answers by padding into the bathroom and shutting the door.

"You'd rather take a leak than jerk me off?" He's aware of how selfish that sounds out loud, but, seriously, dick move. "Prick." Jesse huffs in annoyance, finds his underwear discarded on the floor and tugs them over his hips. The air's a bit chilly, so he sticks his arms through Walt's rumpled shirt because, yeah, he's a sap. Jesse figures since the mood is gone he might as well start on breakfast.

He gets halfway to the kitchen when a knock at the front door makes him stop. He debates asking Walt if he's expecting company but decides there's probably no harm in answering anyway. It seems like everyone knows about their relationship by now—when Saul found out he'd laughed so hard he almost didn't make it to the bathroom. Mike's the only wild-card here, and Jesse's been holding out on telling him because Mike isn't exactly the president of Walt's fan club.

But whoever's knocking probably isn't Mike, so he figures he's in the clear. Jesse swings the door open to be greeted with a sullen, dark-haired teenager whose eyes go wide when he sees Jesse, as if he's got the wrong house. Then he asks, "Hi, is—is my dad home?"

For a brief moment Jesse thinks the kid's mistaken, but then it all comes crashing down when he remembers that, oh yeah, Walt has a son.

_Walt has a son._

And Jesse's standing in Walt's apartment half-naked and wearing Walt's shirt, and, oh God, how does he make it _stop_?

"Yo," is all Jesse can get out of his mouth, pushing a hand through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, your dad's sorta tied up right now"—Christ, that was the worst turn of phrase he could have used—"You wanna come in?"

The boy nods and navigates his way inside; Jesse's trying to think of the quickest way to kill himself, because this is not what he wanted at all.

"Are you the guy who sells my dad pot?"

Nope.

Nope.

This is not happening.

Jesse has no idea if "I'm the guy your dad sticks his dick in" would be a better answer, but he's guessing no. "Who told you that?"

"My mom. But she said my dad told her."

Fuck. Jesse is not equipped to handle this situation. He wonders if Walt has any alcohol in the fridge. Jesse just opts not to say anything at all, since he's pretty much incapable of giving a good answer here. There are no good answers—only varying degrees of awful and embarrassing.

Walt comes out of the bedroom in a robe, and, that's it, Jesse wants nothing more than to curl up into a ball and fly into the sun. "Oh," Walt says in that voice that promises nothing good. "Junior, I see you've met Jesse."

Junior nods. "Your dealer."

Jesse winces, looks over at Walt to catch his reaction. Walt's wearing the most conflicted expression on his face that Jesse's ever seen. He takes a couple steps closer to Jesse, lays a hand on his shoulder and says, "No, my, uh, my partner."

So now they're cowboys. That's just fucking great.

Junior tilts his head. "You work together?"

"Yeah!" Jesse supplies, because there's a time and place for breaking this kind of news to your kid, and they've got it all wrong here. "At the coffee shop."

Junior studies Jesse for a moment, then: "Where are your pants?"

Jesse isn't going to mention that Walt shoved them off of his hips last night before tugging him up to his knees and fucking him. "Oh, I, uh, I spilled. We were testing out some new coffee."

"Jesse's very clumsy," Walt adds, and Jesse makes a mental note to give Walt shit about that later.

Junior looks skeptical, but he decides not to question it lest he never sleep again. He nods, glances around like it's his first time being here. Maybe it is. "So, I guess you're busy, huh?" he says to Walt.

Walt's hand digs in to Jesse's shoulder. "Does your mother need something? Is it the baby?"

Junior shakes his head, looking dismayed. "No, I just—I just thought maybe we could hang out, do something together." He shrugs like it's no big deal. "It's Saturday."

Jesse's heart breaks in his chest. Walt has a decision to make here, and Jesse wants to say that it's okay, that Walt can go spend the day with his son and not feel like he's abandoning Jesse. Because family comes first, always, and this is what he signed up for.

Jesse gracefully twists out of Walt's grip. "Don't worry about it, man. Go chill with your kid. I'll get outta your hair." He realizes his poor choice of words. "Well, you know." He laughs to himself and sees Junior chuckle at the meager attempt at humor. Jesse takes cover in the bedroom where the awkward can't hurt him anymore.

#

"Does Jesse really sell you pot?" Junior asks, and Walt nearly crashes into a mailbox, because, Christ, you don't ask those kinds of questions of someone who's in control of a vehicle.

"No. He's just my partner."

Junior raises an eyebrow. "Like in the gay way?"

Walt breathes out a long, loud sigh.

"There's really no good way to phrase that," Junior says in his own defense. And he's right.

"Who told you?"

Junior just gives him a look. "He wasn't wearing pants." Yeah, that's pretty incriminating evidence there. "I'm not stupid, Dad. I can figure things out. You and Mom always treat me like I'm an idiot, and it's always wrong."

"You're right, son. I'm sorry." Walt remembers that Jesse had asked him not to be ashamed. "Yeah, me and Jesse are kind of a thing."

"Is he the guy who was sending you the chemistry jokes?"

"The one and only."

Junior tosses Walt a self-assured smile. "I told you he liked you."

Walt scowls. "You don't get to be smug about this."

"But I was right!"

"You were lucky. Big difference."

Junior folds his arms over his chest. "Way to be a sore loser, Dad."

Walt refuses to bite back with some sort of argument about how he is absolutely _not_ a loser, because fucking deep into Jesse and watching him come is pretty much the definition of winning.

After a moment of contemplation, Junior says, "Jesse seems cool."

"Yeah," Walt agrees. "He is." Jesse is so much more than that, and it scares Walt in new, horrible ways each time he thinks about how Jesse's slipped into the spaces where Walt needs him the most.

"He's really young," Junior points out.

"Oh, you, uh, you noticed that too?" Walt ought to start a drinking game for every time someone brings up their age difference, but he doesn't hate his liver that much.

"It's kinda hard not to," Junior says, and he's not wrong.

"Does it bother you?"

He shakes his head. "No, it's cool to have somebody closer to my age to talk to."

Walt isn't sure if that's an insult or not.

"Maybe we could all have dinner sometime?" Junior ventures, trying too hard to sound casual about it.

"I don't see your mother agreeing to that...or approving."

Junior studies Walt's face. "'Cause Jesse's a guy?"

Walt shakes his head. "No, I just—I don't know how she might handle seeing me date someone else."

"But Mom's seeing Ted," Junior supplies, and, no, that doesn't make Walt feel any better. "Why can't you see somebody else?"

Walt shrugs. "No idea."

They reach the theater parking lot when Junior asks, "You never told me why you quit teaching."

Walt thinks about how to answer that. "I stopped being fulfilled by it. But mostly I wanted to make my own choices. I had a decision to make, and I didn't want it to be made for me."

"Why'd you stop enjoying it?"

Walt doesn't know. "I guess I'm seeking something new." He's not going to be a sap and say, "Maybe I've already found it."

Junior nods, accepting his answer. "Thanks for telling me what's going on."

"You're welcome, son." Walt feels his phone vibrate, and he digs it out of his pocket to see a text from Jesse: _**r u made of copper and tellurium? bc ur CuTe**_

He's still smiling even after they get inside the theater.

#

Apparently, Walt's more of a jealous boyfriend than he'd ever credited himself, because seeing Jane toss flirting smiles at Jesse nearly every day at the café drives him up the fucking wall. Walt's mirror works, and people who look like Jesse do not date people who look like Walt—especially when there's a quarter-century age gap involved. Clearly, their relationship is a fluke in its death throes that's trying everything in its power to die; Walt does not need Jane coming along with her youthful, vibrant bullshit and accelerating the process.

It wouldn't bother Walt so much if Jesse didn't encourage all of this by flirting _back_. Christ, it's like he doesn't even have a jealous, slightly possessive boyfriend behind the counter making coffee. But Walt can't be too mad at Jesse; Jesse's natural state seems to be smoky smiles and bright blue eyes too beautiful to be real. It's really no surprise that Jane fell for him hook, line, and sinker. Walt actually pities her a little.

Over the course of a few maddening days, Walt picks up Jane's habits when she meets with Jesse. She'll take her order over to a table by the window, where she'll hang her book bag on the back of the chair. Then Jesse will slouch over and talk with her a while until she takes her wallet out of her bag and tips him generously before she leaves. Always the same. Never a deviation from this routine.

The only upside to this is that Jesse's ridiculously attentive to Walt on the nights they spend together—which is every night, because Walt's a needy bastard. He's tempted to read into that, wonder if Jesse's overcompensating to atone for a guilty conscience, but Walt usually stops caring when Jesse's sucking his cock or moaning beneath him.

They're lying in bed on a Thursday night at Jesse's place, watching TV to kill the time Walt needs to recover. Jesse's curled up beside him, pressed against the line of his body, head lolled in the crook of Walt's shoulder. Walt can feel the messy spikes of Jesse's hair against his jaw. Jesse reaches out for the night table on his left, plucks the cigarette he's been nursing out of the ashtray. Walt grumbles under his breath.

"My house, my rules," Jesse reiterates, like he does every damn time Walt rolls his eyes or breathes a little too loudly or makes any sort of indication of his disapproval. But Jesse takes a puff and worms his free hand underneath the sheets, fingers skimming over the top of Walt's thigh before finding his dick. "Yo, wake up," Jesse says, stroking Walt's unyielding cock, "I got needs too."

Walt scowls and tries to will his dick to rise to the occasion, because if he can't please Jesse what good is he? "Good things come to those who wait."

Jesse snickers. "Literally."

Walt hides his chuckle underneath a groan. "You know, you're perfectly capable of satisfying yourself if I'm not up to your standards."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Jesse grins. "Perv."

Walt's not going to deny that watching Jesse get himself off would be the most amazing fucking thing ever. "It has a certain appeal."

Jesse smiles around the cigarette, breathes out smoke in slow, wispy tendrils before stubbing it out in the tray. He lays a hand on Walt's chest and tilts his head up to kiss him. Jesse's mouth tastes like ash and back-alley promises. "So, you wanna watch, huh?" Jesse's still jerking him underneath the sheet, thumb rolling over the head. "Is that what you think about? Dirty old man."

"A dirty old man you choose to sleep with every night—sometimes more than once," Walt reminds him, mostly because he still doesn't believe it himself.

Jesse laughs and steals another kiss. "Yeah, well, I don't have the best judgement."

Walt tries his hardest not to react to that, reminds himself Jesse's only joking, but it still wiggles into his brain and nests there. Jesse doesn't notice Walt's mood, just kisses his mouth over and over while his hand works under the linens.

Jesse's phone chirps just as Walt starts to feel the beginnings of a tight heat gathering at the base of his dick. Jesse reaches for the night table and grabs his cell. Walt wonders if the abundance of tips Jesse's earned since the café's business picked up paid for this fancy new phone. Jesse types a response on the screen, his other hand slowing and eventually stopping. Walt can't see the screen, so he studies Jesse's face for any signs of distress. He doesn't see any, which means there's absolutely no excuse for this aborted handjob.

"Anything important?" Walt ventures.

Jesse shakes his head, his thumb still typing. "Nah, just Mike." Walt clenches his jaw. Mike. The droopy-eyed motherfucker intent on stealing Jesse from him. Walt knows his reaction to the mere mention of this guy cannot possibly be normal, but he finds it difficult to care. "He wants to know if I want breakfast tomorrow."

"And I assume he means with him?"

Jesse rolls his eyes and sets the phone back on the table. "Don't worry, I took a rain-check. You're lucky morning sex is higher up on my list than a Grand Slam."

A smile tugs at the corner of Walt's mouth, and he watches Jesse cuddle closer, feels the heat of Jesse's palm running along his hip. "I think you like making breakfast for me," he says with a lilt of jest, and Jesse's color goes a little pink. "You like being domestic."

Jesse breathes out a laugh, says, "Fuck you, no, I don't," and hides his face in Walt's chest.

Walt eggs him on, because he's fluent enough in Jesse's behavior to know that works. "I think you do." Walt spreads a hand over Jesse's back. "There's no shame in it, Jesse. You can be honest with me."

"You dick," Jesse mumbles into his skin. "Okay, yeah, whatever, I like it," he says, pulling back a little. "It makes me feel like I've got a family, y'know? Somebody to take care of—shut up! Stop looking at me like that!" Jesse shoves playfully at his chest.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking things. Judgemental things. I felt very judged," Jesse stammers out, blushing furiously.

Walt curls a hand around the back of Jesse's head. "I was thinking how wonderful it is to have you," he corrects, covering Jesse's mouth with his own.

Jesse smiles around the kiss. "Bullshit." He sits up before Walt can argue that.

Panic strikes Walt square in the chest as Jesse grabs his shorts off of the floor. "Where are you going?"

"Kitchen," Jesse says, pulling his boxers over his hips.

"Why?"

Now it's Jesse's turn to question Walt's intelligence. "'Cause that's where the food is." Walt looks bewildered. "I'm starved, man. I just got this mad craving for pizza rolls. You want anything?"

"Just you."

Jesse makes a gagging sound before leaving the room. Walt can't help but glance at Jesse's phone laying there on the table. If Jesse's lying about Mike's intentions or having some private correspondence with Jane...

Walt doesn't need much convincing to reach over and grab the phone. He unlocks the screen, sees Jesse's conversation with Mike already pulled up. He scrolls through the messages and finds nothing noteworthy. Maybe Mike isn't a threat. Maybe he's just a normal guy taking Jesse under his wing, with no ulterior motives whatsoever.

Maybe.

Walt figures out how to display the overview of Jesse's texts, and he's relieved that Jane's name is nowhere on that list. Although that strikes him as a little strange. Jesse seems to be pretty friendly with her; why wouldn't they want to talk with each other more? Unless he does have her number stored away on a burner phone, and, man, this is really starting to fuck with Walt's head.

However, a couple familiar names jump out at him: Badger, Skinny Pete, Combo... Walt remembers them coming into the café every now and then, and he also remembers how Jesse told him he's not as closely-knit with them anymore since he got clean.

Jesse's devoted enough to his recovery that he'll dump his friends if they use.

Jesse met Jane at one of his meetings.

Curious, Walt opens the conversation underneath Mike's: Badger._** r u free tomorrow at 5?**_

Jesse's answered in the affirmative.

Badger's next text reads: _**can we come over and hang? i'll bring call of duty**_

Jesse's written: _**hell yea**_

Walt hears Jesse's footsteps ascending the staircase. He exits out of the message and sets the phone in its place before Jesse comes back.


	14. Chapter 14

Walt's parked out front of Jesse's place the next day with his credible alibi in the passenger seat; he planned ahead, realized he'd need an unsuspicious reason to be here, so he packed a go-bag filled with clothes and toiletries to leave at Jesse's for the nights he stays over.

He's not entirely proud of this plan. He spent a good portion of last night trying to convince himself he's already crossed a special line of wrong by spiking Jesse's baked goods—which, by the way, he's still doing each time the sugar supply runs out. So this, really, isn't even the worst thing he's done.

Except it absolutely is.

Badger and Skinny Pete are loitering around the walkway. Walt reminds himself that between this or losing Jesse, he'd take this every single time. He grabs his bag and gets out of the car, plays it casual as he strolls up to them. Badger's the first to notice him. "Hey, it's the coffee guy! What up?"

"Still keepin' it real?" Skinny Pete says.

Walt gives the both of them an acknowledging nod. "Jesse around?"

"Nah, man, I think he's still at work," Badger says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

Being told information Walt already knows is only wasting time, so he tries to hurry the formalities along. "Any idea when he'll be back?"

Skinny Pete checks his wristwatch. "Should be any minute now. He said he'd be home by five."

"So you three have something planned?" Walt asks, feigning ignorance.

"Yeah, bro!" Badger grins and pulls out a disc from his pocket. "_Call of Duty_!"

Walt puts on his most charming smile, the one he used to conjure up for parent-teacher meetings back at Wynne. "Well, that's great. Jesse will like that. But, uh, I hope you don't mind me asking, but he's been having a tough week staying clean. If you have anything on you, I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring it inside."

They give him blank stares, like Walt might be wired and they're afraid admitting to anything will land them in jail. "Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do with it?" Skinny Pete asks after a moment.

Badger punches him in the shoulder. "Dude!"

"What?"

Walt pushes on. "Then, I'd prefer, from one friend of Jesse's to another, if you didn't visit him with any sort of temptation."

Badger and Skinny Pete exchange a look. Badger shrugs animatedly. "Nah, dude, c'mon, Jesse will be cool. We won't give it to him or anything."

Skinny Pete nods. "Yeah, Jesse gets mad props from us for staying clean."

No more screwing around. Time to up the ante. "How about I buy it from you?" Badger and Skinny Pete's eyes go as wide as dinner plates. "How much? A hundred?"

They look at each other, then Skinny Pete says, "Make it three."

Walt reaches into his jacket pocket, and Badger holds up his hands like he's fending off an attack. "Whoa, whoa, dude, you can't just buy here!"

Walt ignores him, takes his keys out and dangles them for Badger's sake. He walks up the rest of the walkway and lets himself inside.

"You got a key?" Badger asks, trailing behind him. "How come we don't have a key?"

"'Cause Jesse's tryin' to get clean," Skinny Pete says.

"But we've never had keys! Even when Jesse was using! This is bullshit, I'm actually—"

"Jesse decided his partner ought to have a key. I gave him one to my apartment too," Walt explains. It's leverage so they trust him and understand his motives behind the deal. And if the whole Walt-dating-Jesse thing overshadows any oddities in the plan, well, that's just a bonus. "I'm leaving some clothes here for when I spend the night." He lifts the bag to emphasize the point. Walt shrugs and pockets his keys. "Jesse didn't tell you?"

Badger freezes halfway into the foyer. Skinny Pete bumps into him. "You guys are dating?" Badger shouts. Skinny Pete looks like he doesn't understand anything anymore. "Seriously, how did you—Why didn't he tell me?"

Skinny Pete makes a face. "You and Jesse? But you're, like, sixty."

Walt scowls. "I'm fifty." How do people keep getting that wrong? Does he actually _look_ sixty? Is it the beard or the shaved head? Jesse said the bald look really worked for him, that it made him look younger—yes, Walt _does_ remember every awkward, flustered compliment Jesse's given him—so it's probably the beard. Fuck.

Badger spreads his hands as if to say, "So?"

Walt needs to speed this up or he's going to get busted. "Why don't you ask Jesse? Now, are we going to do this or not?" He takes his wallet out and thumbs through the cash.

This is probably the weirdest drug deal Badger and Skinny Pete have ever been a part of. They fumble through their pockets and take out small bags of crystal, handing them over sheepishly. "I get it now," Badger says. "You're bein' all protective and shit over your boyfriend." Skinny Pete snickers.

Walt stuffs the bags into his pocket, hands the money over. "I'm glad we're all on the same page." He's pretty much had all the humiliation excised from him like a tumor after his family and friends found out about his relationship with Jesse; Hank's flagrant display of laughter and tongue-in-cheek congratulations a couple days ago at the café was the tipping point that made Walt shed his shame like a snake-skin—Walt may never be embarrassed about anything ever again.

Walt hesitates before he hands over the last bill. "Before I give you this, I need you to promise not to tell Jesse that this transaction took place." He watches their faces. "Are we clear?"

"Crystal." Badger waits a beat, then, "Ha, get it?"

Walt gives him the money and sighs. Jesse's chemistry puns sound profound in comparison.

Walt leaves the way he arrived—with the front door locked and Badger and Skinny Pete waiting outside—and Jesse's none the wiser.

#

"I didn't know you had a girly pink side," Jane teases, poking at the red velvet cupcake with her fork.

Jesse's face flushes. "It's seasonal. Y'know, for Valentine's Day."

"It's not even February yet."

"Well, it's not like January really has any dessert-worthy holidays past New Year's."

Jane nods thoughtfully. "Good presentation," she says. The cupcake is layered in slices of cake and icing inside a small jar, topped with red and pink sprinkles. "It's almost too cute to eat." She digs the fork in, smiles. "Almost."

The café's experiencing its usual mid-afternoon lull where the sunlight gleams bright through the windows, nary a shadow to be seen, and the air smells like coffee and freshly-baked cookies leftover from the lunch crowd. Mike's in his spot in the corner by the front door, reading the newspaper and facing the shop floor, ever vigilant.

Jane makes a sound of approval around a bite of cupcake. "That's awesome. _You're_ awesome." Jesse grins. "What did you put in this cake?"

"Buttermilk," he says proudly. "And, y'know, the usual stuff."

"It's pretty amazing," she says before taking another bite. "You should start your own shop."

"My boss offered me a promotion, actually. For, uh, like, being in charge of the recipes and shit, 'cause he wants to open up a bunch of new stores all over, and I'd be, like, the head baker or whatever." He fidgets with the ends of his sleeves. "I told him I'd totally do it, but I'm kinda worried. I mean, there's a lot of management."

Jane has a way of looking at you like she's really listening; it's one of Jesse's favorite things about her. "So there's not as much actual baking as you thought?"

"Well, yeah, there's that," he admits, slumping in his seat a little. "And all the traveling involved makes me think I won't have a lot of time for, like, a family and shit. And maybe I'm scared I'll fuck it up."

Jane licks icing off of the spoon before she says, "I don't think your boss would've offered you the promotion if he didn't think you could do it."

"I'm not sayin' he's wrong, but I've never had that much responsibility before."

"It won't come all at once. All those other stores won't open at the same time. So you'll get to practice with two or three and then gradually work your way up." She smiles at him, and it's all warmth and honesty. He's glad he talked with her; he hasn't breached the topic with Walt beyond the first time on Christmas because he wants an unfettered opinion, and Jane's not afraid to be open with him.

It's all he can do to smile dumbly and nod in appreciation.

He's immersed in watching Jane sketch a dragon in her sketchbook when Walt's voice startles him: "Jesse, don't you have work to be doing?"

Jesse straightens to attention, sees Walt standing behind Jane's chair with a scowl on his face. "Oh shit, what time is it?"

"Time for you to stop slacking." Walt gives him a meaningful look before walking off to tend to the counter.

"I don't wanna get you in trouble," Jane says. "I should head out anyway." She grabs her bag off of the chair, sets it on the table while she digs for her wallet.

That's when Jesse watches a tiny baggie of clear crystals flop out of her purse and onto the table.

Meth.

Jane sees that Jesse's noticed it, and her faces stiffens. She flicks a horrified gaze at him before looking at the crystal again. "That is _not_ mine."

Jesse's heard that one before. He looks away pointedly, pretending to be blissfully ignorant and giving her time to hide the stash.

"No, Jesse, I'm serious, this isn't mine. I don't know how it got in there, I—"

Jesse holds up his hands like he's fending off her defense. "Whatever, man. I don't judge. I'm not gonna say anything. C'mon, you know me. I fell off the wagon before." He lays a hand over hers, and her arm twitches like she wants to pull away. "Don't beat yourself up over it. This isn't a one-shot thing, y'know. You get to keep trying," he says, echoing Mike's words of encouragement.

Jane's mouth presses into a hard line before she snatches up the baggie and stuffs it inside her purse. "I swear to you, it's not mine."

Jesse doesn't say anything; contrary to popular opinion, he knows when to keep quiet. He watches her hands shake as she snaps open her wallet and sets a five dollar bill on the table between them.

"Thanks," Jesse says. "Hey, if you need anything, just let me know—"

Jane leaves the table before he can finish, hurrying out of the building.

#

"Fuck, Mr. White—I can't—"

"Yes, you can, Jesse. You can do this."

Jesse's on top this time, perched on Walt's dick with his knees pressed into the sheets. Their hands are clasped together to allow Jesse some leverage to ride him, but he still hasn't gotten used to the way Walt fits inside him yet. "It's too much," Jesse breathes out, squeezing Walt's waist between his thighs as he lifts himself up so the head of Walt's dick isn't shoved against his prostate.

Walt bucks his hips and fills Jesse up again. Jesse yelps, instinctively grinding down on the hilt of his cock over and over, drunk on the way each roll of his hips sends sparks crackling up his spine.

"There you go," Walt praises, and Jesse squeezes Walt's fingers tighter as he deepens the push and pull of his hips. "Just like that..." Jesse's grateful for the way Walt coaches him when they have sex; he's had his fair share of experience, but this is an actual relationship, and he wants Walt to enjoy himself too. Sometimes Jesse can tell by the noises Walt makes, how he chokes on Jesse's name and sounds like he's breaking apart. "That's good, Jesse..."

Their hips crash and burn together, with Walt timing his thrusts to complement the way Jesse rises and falls in his lap. Walt wraps his hands around Jesse's hips to haul him closer, and there's no biting back the sound that bubbles out of Jesse's throat. Walt digs his fingers in like hearing Jesse makes this better for him. "Jesse, Jesse, please..." Walt groans, and Jesse bites down on the whimpers and gasping breaths building in his throat, because Walt never asks for anything in bed—he's a big fan of giving orders. When he begs like this, so fragile and uncontrolled and open, it forces Jesse silent so he can hear it.

Jesse rises up and sinks down, slow and steady, and the hold on his hips grows bruising as Walt shudders out a breath. There's a low rumble in his chest, cut through with a little gasp of praise each time Jesse moves on him. Jesse feels a sharp heat twist in his loins, and he grinds down harder, on the edge of release, needing Walt to break him open. He mouths, "Mr. White," around a shaky exhale, then his body bows forward from the raw, overwhelming spike of sensation. He plants a hand on the pillow under Walt's head so he can push his hips back at a different angle, and, oh Jesus, Walt's fucking into him just right.

Walt tips his head to the side, presses his mouth to the inside of Jesse's wrist, the heat of his breath ghosting over Jesse's skin as he sighs out a gasp. Jesse moans, his whole body tense and tight, and Walt's hands slide over the juts of Jesse's spine and the curve of his back. Their hips crash together in hard, needy shoves, then Walt's groaning and twisting and pouring hot and wet inside of Jesse, and there's no way Jesse's going to last through that. His orgasm hits him like that first bump of crystal, too much all at once, and Jesse breaks apart, moaning, "Mr. White," as the earth shifts beneath him.

His stomach's painted wet with warm stripes of his cum, and Jesse doesn't even care. He has no idea how to begin to form a sentence. All he can do is slump uselessly onto Walt and sprawl over his chest. Walt doesn't seem to mind, which strikes Jesse as a little troubling, because Walt usually has something to bitch about even after sex.

Walt may have actually _died_.

"Yo," Jesse murmurs into the curve of Walt's neck. "You alive?"

"Barely."

Jesse pushes himself up on shaky arms to seal their lips together. "So, was that good enough for you?" He's breathing shaky little sounds against Walt's mouth, his chest still heaving.

Walt's hands spread hot and wide over Jesse's back. "It always is. You're a fast learner," he says softly, slipping into teacher mode again.

Jesse soaks up the praise like a sponge. "Yeah, see, I can apply myself—to your dick."

Walt actually laughs, but Jesse figures it's because Walt's still coming down from the edge. "I'm glad you waited until that wasn't frowned upon by the authorities."

Jesse huffs laughter before kissing the line of Walt's mouth again. "'Cause junior year chemistry was all about tryin' to get in your pants."

Walt frowns. "You don't have to rub it in."

"I know." Jesse gives him an innocent smile that Walt kisses away. He holds Jesse close, one arm around his shoulders and the other tracing lines up and down his spine. Jesse likes the heat of Walt's breath in his hair.

They go silent for a moment, and Jesse relaxes under the way Walt's hands move slow on his skin. Then he has to go and ruin the whole thing by asking, "Do I really look that old?"

Jesse lets out a long sigh. "Jesus, you giant girl. You look fine."

"Is it the beard?" Walt asks, scratching his chin.

Jesse lifts his head up, stares at Walt in horror. "No, no, the beard is awesome! It stays."

"Should I grow my hair back?"

"I told you the bald thing worked for you, remember?"

"I know, I just wanted to hear you say it again."

"Dick," Jesse says around a laugh, his cheek flat on Walt's chest. He closes his eyes and lets the air out of his lungs, lays his hands over Walt's forearms.

"Something wrong?"

"Gimme a smoke, would you?" Walt doesn't argue, just reaches over to the night table and hands Jesse a cigarette. Jesse waves a hand. "Yo, bitch, I need a light too." Walt rolls his eyes this time before doing as he's asked. He opens his mouth to argue, probably to insist that Jesse be at least a foot away from his face before lighting up, but decides against it. Jesse flicks on the flame, gets the tip lit. The first drag immediately puts him at ease.

"So, uh, Jane relapsed today," Jesse says around the smoke. "Or maybe before that. Or maybe she was gonna do it later, I don't know."

"She told you this?"

He shakes his head. "I saw it. The crystal, I mean. She had it in her purse." He wets his lips, tries not to think about how close he was. He could have asked for some, offered to hold it for her, maybe tempted her into using together. His shoulders quake involuntarily, and he takes another drag. "She said it wasn't hers, but that's like the junkie motto, y'know?" His mouth quirks into a joyless smile when he remembers all the times he's used that excuse. No one ever bought it, so why did he keep trying?

Walt doesn't say anything. His hand curls around Jesse's shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze.

"I wish I could do something for her," Jesse mumbles. "To help." He sucks at the filter of the cigarette, and the line of ash at the tip grows impossibly long.

Walt fetches the ashtray from the table and slides it across the sheet. "You could get Mike to help her. He's good with this stuff."

Jesse taps the ashes into the tray, unseeing. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, she's got a sponsor already—her dad—but I dunno, I just wanna help."

"That's very noble, Jesse," Walt says, "but you haven't completed the program yet. You need to focus on your own recovery." He lays his hand over the tattoo on Jesse's back. "If you tried to help her and, God forbid, relapsed, what kind of friend would you be?"

Jesse nods and takes another drag. "I know. I guess I'm just...freaked out, 'cause it was, like, right there, y'know? I haven't touched or even looked at the stuff in two months. If the guys bring it over when we hang they never use or take it out." Sometimes he wonders if they _do_ bring it, if he's been in a room with it and never known.

Walt squeezes where Jesse's neck and shoulder meet; Jesse makes an involuntary grunt of pleasure. "You're doing very well. I'm proud of you," he says, and it doesn't lose its shine the second time around.

"Thanks." Jesse smiles despite himself. He wishes he could frame every compliment Walt gives him; maybe someday those frames would cover the walls.

Walt nestles his hand in Jesse's hair. Jesse takes another puff, watches the smoke stretch out in wisps when he exhales. Walt waits patiently, his hand moving in tender lines and circles over Jesse's skin. Jesse starts, "I was thinking about givin' this place back to my parents."

"Why?"

"Well, 'cause Jake really wants to go to space camp this summer. And I want him to have more advantages than I did growing up. If my parents can sell the place, they'll have enough money for whatever he wants."

Walt's watching him with a wide-open, reverent look, and Jesse feels stripped bare beneath the gaze. "Where will you live?"

Jesse shrugs, taps out the growing line of ash. "I dunno. I'll find something. Maybe Mike can help me."

Walt moves his hand so his fingers feather through the short hair at the base of Jesse's neck. "Did you ever think about staying with me?"

Jesse snickers. "With you?"

Walt looks offended. "Yes, with me. I'm open to the idea of us...living together."

Jesse's never really thought about that, never considered it as a possibility, not in this stage where he feels like a clumsy bull in a china shop desperately trying not to break anything. But Walt doesn't offer things just as a nicety; this is something he really wants.

Walt wants Jesse to live with him.

Holy shit.

Jesse wets his lips, finds his mouth dry. "Wow, that's... Really?"

He expects Walt to roll his eyes or take it back, but instead he smiles and holds Jesse closer. "Why not?"

Jesse doesn't want to ruin this moment with all the reasons why Walt's going to regret this decision, so he just presses Walt into the sheets and kisses him.


	15. Chapter 15

Mike invites Jesse over on the next Saturday night to spend some time with him and Kaylee. Jesse takes him up on that, because he realizes he's been neglecting his other friends since Walt's been officially deemed Jesse's other half. Which, in his own defense, Jesse thinks that's understandable—the choice between having sex with his exceptionally hot boyfriend or hanging out with surrogate-grandpa Mike is embarrassingly easy.

So, yeah, he's been distracted.

Kaylee's glad to see Jesse, even happier when he gives her the bag of cookies he brought for her; Mike even lets her eat one before dinner. She shows Jesse all of her toys, and he helps her fit all of her stuffed animals onto her bed "so they don't feel left out," as she'd put it. Jesse doesn't mind; he loves kids. There's something so open and honest about children that he appreciates, how the simplest things can capture their imagination and entertain them for hours.

The three of them share a pizza and watch cartoons together on the couch. Jesse's sprawled out as much as he can be, but Kaylee's snuggled up against Mike's shoulder, so Jesse's got some extra room. This is a nice change from his usual evenings in with Walt, where most of their time is spent in various forms of sweaty nudity. Sure, they have dinner together sometimes or watch movies on the couch or in bed, but the atmosphere's all different when Walt's got his arm around Jesse's shoulders or a hand on his thigh. So there's a whole new dynamic here that lets him take some time to breathe.

He wonders if maybe he can have this kind of familiarity and intimacy with Walt. Walt _did_ mention he was going to be a father again—pretty soon, actually, if Jesse remembers correctly. If Walt wants Jesse to live with him, does that mean he's okay with Jesse being involved in that part of his life? Because Jesse would totally be willing to feed and change and play with the baby. He's got experience with this; Jake wasn't always a child prodigy who could feed and wash himself—plus there's the whole thing with Aunt Ginny. Jesse's a care-taker at heart, really.

Mike puts Kaylee to bed around ten, and when he comes back to the living room, Jesse wipes his palms on his jeans and stands up. "I guess I should bounce, huh?"

Mike waves a hand. "Nah, c'mon, stay a while. I barely got to talk to you all night."

Jesse smiles, and Mike grabs a soda out of the kitchen before sitting beside him on the couch. He pops the top open, asks, "So, you and Walter, huh?"

Jesse looks at him. "What?"

"You and Walter," Mike repeats more slowly this time, placing emphasis on each word.

Jesse feels a knot of guilt in his stomach. "How'd you know?"

Mike takes a thoughtful sip while Jesse waits in nervous silence. "You wear your heart on your sleeve. Almost as bad as Gale."

"Seriously?"

Mike smiles. "That was a joke, kid." Jesse breathes out a small sigh of relief. "I gotta ask, and I'm probably not gonna like the answer, but...why? Why Walter?"

Jesse shrugs, toys with the worn cuffs of his hoodie sleeves. This shouldn't be something he feels compelled to defend. "'Cause I like him. He's not that much of an asshole once you really get to know him. He can be nice when he wants to."

Mike's mouth is a line of disapproval. "'No, really, Officer, deep down he really loves me.'"

Jesse groans and rubs a hand over his face. "Oh my God, you're making it sound so bad. It's not like that at all. We're just dating like normal people."

Mike looks like he's tasted something horrible. "He doesn't make you do anything you don't wanna do, does he?"

Jesse covers his face and slumps into the couch cushions, because he knows _exactly_ what Mike means by that. "Jesus, no! Mr. White's not like that, okay?"

"Yet he still makes you call him Mr. White."

"He doesn't _make_ me do anything. It's just...habit, I guess."

Mike says nothing, and that's actually more terrifying than any words he could come up with. He just makes a face that says "this can't end well," which doesn't do much for Jesse's self-esteem.

Jesse feels the need to talk into the silence. "I dunno, I like him. Yeah, he's grumpy a lot, but he makes me laugh and feel kinda good about myself, so...there's that."

Mike tips his head like he's agreeing, but Jesse knows better. "Just be careful. Walter doesn't strike me as a very trusting guy."

Jesse raises a dubious eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"All's I'm saying is he might try to isolate you from other things—or people—in your life."

That's a hell of a loaded sentence. "What, you think he's gonna try to stop me from seein' you?"

Mike gives a little shrug. "Maybe, if he thinks I'm a threat."

"Nah, he knows you're my sponsor."

"So?"

"So what?"

"You think he'll just take you on your word?"

"My word is solid, yo."

"And Walter is, shall we say, a ticking time bomb. Guys like that—it doesn't matter how trustworthy you are."

Jesse pouts. "Can you just...not ride me about this? It's really good right now. I mean, he's totally supportive about my meetings and shit. He's proud of me, y'know? He's actually proud of me." Jesse's never going to stop feeling amazed about that.

Mike lets out a long sigh, mouth curled into a weary frown as he stands up. "Alright, look, kid. I gotta show you something. I don't want to, but I respect you too much to let you live with a lie."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Mike just says, "Come with me," and heads down the hallway. Jesse follows Mike into his bedroom. Mike walks over to the desk and opens his laptop. Jesse doesn't know whether to stand or sit, so he opts to stand. Mike presses a few buttons and pulls up a grainy, black-and-white surveillance video.

"Hey, that's the shop," Jesse says. Mr. Observant.

Mike stays silent and lets the video play.

"So, what am I supposed to be seeing here?"

Mike, again, says nothing, so Jesse figures he's got to find out for himself. On the top left side of the screen, the timestamp reads 01:21:13 p.m. The date is last Saturday.

The day Jane relapsed, Jesse thinks.

There's no sound, but the camera's positioned in a way that gets a good view of the shop floor all the way to the front door. Jesse picks out himself and Jane on camera. He finds Mike reading the newspaper. Then he sees Walt on the left, a few tables behind Jane and Jesse. He watches Walt head south, nearing their table. The video's a little blurry, but Jesse can see Walt's left hand sneak into his pants' pocket. When Walt stands behind Jane's chair, Jesse notices the glint of something moving.

"Whoa, go back."

Mike skips back five seconds. Jesse watches Walt pocket his hand again, slither it out, then something moves too quickly to the floor.

No, not the floor.

Into Jane's bag.

Jesse feels his throat lock up tight as the realization jars him like a body blow.

Jane didn't relapse at all. Walt planted the meth. But why? Where did he get it?

Mike's studying him with knowing eyes. "You seen enough?"

Jesse nods, still numb, and Mike shuts the computer screen off. "How—how did you know?" he manages to say.

"I saw the drop." At Jesse's surprise, Mike adds, with a perfectly straight face, "Yeah, I've been keeping an eye on him. Don't worry, I feel just awful about it."

"So you never trusted him?"

Mike scoffs. "Trust and Walter are like oil and water."

Jesse buries his head in his hands, drags his fingers through his hair. "C'mon, there's gotta be—maybe he knew something I didn't."

"_Maybe_ he saw you getting a little too close to a pretty girl your age, and paging Doctor Jealousy, Doctor Jealousy, please pick up the green courtesy phone."

Jesse shakes his head, trying to clear it. "No way, that's—that's not..." That's not Walt? Clearly, Jesse doesn't know a damn thing about the man; just five minutes ago he'd have sworn on his life that Walt wasn't capable of this.

A horrifying thought grows in his head: what else has Walt done that hasn't been videotaped?

"I'm sorry, Jesse," Mike says, and, to his credit, he does sound sorry, but that doesn't change a damn thing. Why couldn't he just let Jesse live with a peaceful lie?

Jesse stands on shaky legs and makes for the door. Rage trickles through his veins and engulfs him. Walt didn't ask him to move in out of love; he asked out of guilt.

"Hey, kid, where you going?"

"Out."

Mike catches up to him. "You sure? Don't do anything stupid here. Sleep on it. Take a breather." But Jesse hears the subtext in that sentence, and, wow, it hurts that Mike would immediately assume he's going to relapse.

"I won't, okay?" Jesse bites out.

To Mike's credit, he looks like he regrets his words. He lays a hand on Jesse's shoulder, and Jesse doesn't shrug away. "Go home, Jesse."

"Yeah, I will."

#

Jesse screeches to a stop in front of Walt's apartment, because Walt asked him to move in, so, technically, this counts as Jesse's home too, right? Jesse loves loopholes.

When Walt opens the door, Jesse shoves his way inside, fury radiating off of him like heat off of a sidewalk. "Jesse? Is something wrong? What—"

"You set her up!" Jesse blurts out. "You put the meth in Jane's purse! She didn't relapse!"

Walt does a pretty good incredulous face. "What? What are you talking about? Why would I—"

"Next time you wanna frame somebody, make sure it's not caught on camera, dumbass!"

Walt looks like he's been punched in the stomach. He takes a step back, putting some distance between himself and Jesse.

"I'm gonna give you one chance to bullshit your way out of this," Jesse growls, "so make it good." His hands clench at his sides.

Walt swallows, his eyes everywhere but Jesse. Christ, he's a terrible liar. How could Jesse not see it before? "Who told you this?"

"Mike. He saw it and showed me the tape."

Walt's jaw clenches at the name.

Jesse scoffs a humorless laugh. "You knew Jane had a drug problem 'cause I told you I met her at a meeting. And you knew I started hangin' out with Badger and Skinny and Combo a lot less 'cause they use, so, what, did you think I'd do the same with her?"

"Jesse, I know you're angry, but you have to understand—"

"There is _nothing_ about this that I understand! This is straight-up bullshit!" Jesse's nails dig into his palms, then his body slackens with the realization: "You got the crystal from them, didn't you? When you showed up at my place last week. Badger said you were there to drop your stuff off, but that was just a ruse, wasn't it?" Jesse wants to scream and cry and pass out all at once. "How much did you pay them to keep quiet?"

Walt shakes his head, holds his hands up as if fending off an attack. "Jesse, just...please try to understand my side of it. The very last thing you need in your life is another addict to tempt you. You've been clean for two months—almost three—and you've been doing so well I couldn't stand to see anyone get in the way of that. If you relapsed again your job would be at risk, your promotion...everything you've worked so hard for." It's as close to pleading as Jesse's ever heard from Walt, and it doesn't strike him as a lie. If Walt had truly acted out of concern for Jesse, well, that's not unforgiveable, is it?

"Are you sure you didn't do it just 'cause you were jealous?" Jesse asks, because he has to know.

"Jealous?"

"Yeah, remember? You asked me if you looked too old, like maybe you felt threatened 'cause Jane's my age."

"Jesse, that's ridiculous."

"Is it?" His thoughts spin out in infinite directions, creating all sorts of reasonable doubt for his original hypothesis. Maybe Walt wasn't jealous at all; maybe he really was looking out for Jesse in his own flawed way. "You really think I wouldn't have said no? That if she ever did offer me crystal that I wouldn't think twice about it?"

"Not incapable," Walt says, "just...impaired."

Jesse balks at the accusation. "'Impaired'? I've been clean almost three months! That's three times better than I was last time!"

"But that's not a guarantee, and I had to make sure you wouldn't get the chance to be tempted."

"What if _she_ was? What if she used again because you gave it to her?"

Walt's expression caves in, like he never considered that as a possibility. "Did she?"

"Maybe," Jesse bluffs.

There's a sick blankness on Walt's face for a moment before he sighs and scrubs a hand over his scalp. "God, Jesse, I'm sorry... I just wanted to keep you safe."

Jesse thinks about telling Walt the truth, but Walt deserves to stew in his own guilt for a while. "Why don't you trust me, Mr. White?"

"I do," he says, but it's weak, almost as if he doesn't believe it.

"Really, 'cause planting meth on Jane so I'll stay away from her doesn't sound very trusting to me."

Walt shuts his eyes in pain, like it hurts him to hear out loud what he's done. "I made a mistake."

"A _mistake_? Jesus, are you really—_that's_ what you're going with?" Jesse huffs out an angry sigh and storms past Walt.

"Where are you going? Jesse!"

"I just need to not be here—with you—right now, okay?"

Jesse takes a bit of satisfaction in the hurt on Walt's face before rushing out the door.

He doesn't relapse or do anything harmful on an impulse. Rather, he heads straight for the café, because that's pretty much his go-to location when he's overwhelmed and wants to forget about things for a while.

The strip mall parking lot is dark to an almost creepy degree, but there's enough outside illumination to guide the way. Jesse grabs his MP3 player out of the car console and shuts the door. He flicks on the lights when he gets inside the shop and heads straight for the kitchen.

Since he started trying to get clean, baking's served as a form of therapy for him; forcing himself to focus on something other than the problems swirling dizzily in his head can only do good, and he's a big fan of drowning out poisonous, anxious thoughts with loud music.

So it's no surprise that Jesse doesn't notice the intruders until there's a sharp pain in his head and he's lying on the cold tile.


	16. Chapter 16

Jesse's only out for a couple of seconds, but that's all the time his assailants need to restrain him and drag him across the shop floor. His head throbs, and a warm trickle of something wet slides down the side of his face and into his eye. Two eerily-similar dudes with matching shaved heads and silver suits carry him to the door, glaring down at him like he's inconveniencing them somehow. Jesse tries to kick himself free, but the chains clasped around his ankles don't allow for much movement.

Then Tuco Salamanca steps out from the kitchen, and Jesse sees red. "So, what, you gonna kill me 'cause I'm not gonna work for you?"

Tuco laughs, and the Wonder Twins stop dragging Jesse so Tuco can stand over him in an intimidating manner. "Nah, 'cause you _are_ gonna work for me. See, my _Tio_ was all about gettin' things done, even if it meant makin' a few enemies. Y'know the saying: can't make an omelette without crackin' a few eggs?"

Jesse glares at him. "Yo, you are _not_ crackin' my eggs."

"Ain't you ever heard of a metaphor? Or is it a simile? Whatever, I'm not a writer."

Oh boy.

Jesse thrashes his legs the best he can, but Tuco steps on his chain to force him still. "Now, Marco and Leonel are gonna take you back to Vamonos while Todd cleans up in there." Jesse watches a tall, clean-cut white dude milling about in the kitchen. "Can't have anybody knowing you didn't leave on your own, right?" He bends down and pats Jesse's pockets before reaching in and grabbing Jesse's keys and cell phone. Tuco stands up, shouts, "Todd!"

Todd emerges from the kitchen, and Jesse finally gets a good look at his face; he looks like a grown-up version of the boy in that _Twilight Zone_ episode who banished all the adults to the cornfield when they pissed him off. Creepy motherfucker.

Tuco tosses Todd the keys. "Lock up when you're done, and ditch the car. We're gonna take a little ride."

Jesse grits his teeth, and the twins drag him out the door and toss him into the backseat of a black Escalade parked out front of the shop. Jesse struggles, but his legs and hands are chained, so there's not much he can do to escape. The twins sit on either side of him and block him in.

Jesse leans his head back against the headrest, trying to steady his breathing and ebb the sting of pins and needles in his skull. He doesn't think they're going to kill him—not yet, at least. "How did you find me?" Because that's an important question right now.

Tuco shrugs. "I saw the lights on, then I saw it was your dumb ass in there and not Fring. Call it"—he searches for the word—"serendipity."

Jesse can't think of a witty comeback for that, but the word "shitty" bounces around in his brain nonetheless. Didn't Walt scold him once before for being oblivious to his surroundings? Of course, Jesse had shrugged it off at the time and chalked it up to Walt being a crotchety old man, but, damn, he wishes he would have listened now.

#

Walt's not too concerned the next day when he shows up at the café and Jesse's not there for the morning shift. Walt knows Jesse, and Jesse is impulsive, rash, and immature in a way that enables him to storm off and hole himself up somewhere without contact to prove a point. Skyler could turn the silent treatment into an art form, so Walt's got a lot of experience with this kind of thing. He's honestly surprised that this is their first real fight; he'd assumed they'd be at each other's throats long before now.

But Gus is actually _fretting_, though he's doing a valiant job of trying to hide it. "Jesse's not with you?" he asks right after Walt walks through the door, like Walt and Jesse are a package deal.

"I don't think he'll be showing up today. He's mad at me."

Gus frowns. "What did you do?"

Walt sighs, because it's completely unfair that Gus immediately blames him. Okay, Gus isn't wrong, but the benefit of the doubt would be nice. "I may have done something to upset him."

"May have?" Gus lifts an eyebrow that feels particularly judgemental.

"Don't you have something better to do?"

"I suppose I should ask Andrea to cover Jesse's shift if he's not coming in," Gus ponders before ducking into his office.

Walt watches Mike rise from his table and follow Gus, only to come back out a few moments later. Mike gives Walt a dirty look and can't resist running his mouth. "Just for the record, I am absolutely blaming this on you."

Walt scoffs. "I'm not the one who stuck his nose in where it didn't belong."

"Oh, right, you're just the one who planted methamphetamine on Jesse's friend—a recovering addict." Mike narrows his eyes. "You feel good about yourself, Walter?"

"You gave someone meth?" Gale asks in a hushed whisper, scandalized as he tries to fit his way into their little group.

Walt holds up a hand. "Gale, would you just—please? This conversation does not concern you."

Gale visibly wilts before returning to the morning brew; Walt has zero doubt that he's eavesdropping.

Mike shakes his head and moves to depart. "I gotta make sure the kid's not holed up in some godawful crack house. Try not to screw with anybody else's life while I'm gone, alright?"

Walt rolls his eyes. Mr. Mature.

When Mike gets back, it's mid-afternoon, and Gus pushes his office door open expectantly for the results of Mike's search. Walt pretends like he's not listening as Mike relays the news. "He didn't turn up at his place or Walter's or any of the known drug houses. No hospitals or police stations either. Wherever he is, he doesn't want to be found."

"Thank you," Gus says, but he doesn't sound happy.

Against his better judgement, Walt sneaks outside during a break to call Jesse. He knows he's probably just feeding into whatever pity-party Jesse's got going on, but if the kid's actually hurt or in danger Walt would never forgive himself.

Walt dials the number and waits through the rings. Jesse doesn't answer. Walt's not surprised, but it still hurts.

"Jesse, it's me. You're being an idiot. I understand that you're mad at me, but is it really worth jeopardizing your job and your future over a silly argument? Just—just call me back and we can talk about this, okay?"

The second day Jesse doesn't show up, Walt starts to worry. Mike reports no sightings of Jesse in any local hospitals or police stations, which doesn't do much to ease Walt's anxiety, because that doesn't rule out the possibility of Jesse being dead—just that he hasn't been discovered yet. So Walt gets the sinking feeling that something awful has happened.

He tries to busy himself with work, but his brain just doesn't operate that way. Walt's a problem-solver by nature, and the fact that he can't solve this one, that he has to just sit by and wait for God knows what, fills him with dread and anger and misery.

Walt leaves another message on Jesse's voicemail before bed: "Jesse, hi, it's me again. I just—look, avoiding me is just immature, you know that, right? We're not going to solve anything with you hiding out like this. Wherever you are, just...talk to me, please?"

Walt doesn't know what to do with himself when Jesse's absent for three days in a row. This has never happened before. Jesse's never gone this long without contact; even before they started dating Jesse would at least shoot him a goofy text message. God, does Walt miss those now. He reads through them all and hates himself more and more; Jesse would still be here right alongside him if Walt wasn't such a manipulative, possessive bastard. It's like he has some compulsive urge to destroy the few nice things he manages to earn for himself.

Walt didn't know he could frustratedly brew coffee, but apparently that's a thing he does now. He makes a promise to himself to get rid of the spiked sugar when—not if—Jesse comes back. "Any news on Jesse?" he asks Mike, trying to be subtle in his quest for information by handing him a black coffee.

"Nada." Mike takes a sip, doesn't meet Walt's eyes.

"You're not even going to look?"

"Not a lot I can do. He's not in lock-up or the E.R.—"

"But he's missing. Isn't there some sort of 72-hour rule for missing persons?"

"Maybe he just ran away," Mike says simply. "Maybe he's had enough of your brand of bullshit and decided to make a life elsewhere. Saul knows a guy who can make that happen." 

Walt feels something cold wrap around his heart. "Did he?"

"Saul says no, but that doesn't mean Jesse didn't do it himself."

"What about his car? He has one of those anti-theft things—those have GPS, right? He's not answering my calls, I can't get in touch with him... I just want to make sure he's not in danger."

Mike glares at him and sips his coffee in a particularly threatening manner.

"Look, if I'm wrong and he really is starting over somewhere, then I'll leave him alone. Hand to God."

"You really expect me to take your word for it?" Mike scowls, takes out his wallet. "A hundred bucks. If you're right, you'll get it back. If not, it stays right here in the Bank of Ehrmantraut."

Walt's first instinct is to accuse Mike of extortion, but a hundred dollars is nothing if it means Jesse's safety, so he coughs up the money.

While Mike's out tracking down Jesse's car, Walt goes out back of the shop and makes another desperate phone call to Jesse: "Jesse, it's been three days. I'm worried about you. Just...give me any sign at all that you're out there. Even if you call or text to tell me I'm an asshole—I'd certainly deserve it. I just—I care about you so much, and I don't want to lose you. I never had much control of my life before you walked into it again, so maybe I hold on too tightly. Or maybe you're right and I'm just an asshole. But please...at least give me a chance to say goodbye." Walt feels his throat swell. "I love you, Jesse." He hangs up before he can start crying, because, goddamn it, this was not supposed to happen.

#

Jesse's three days in to his life of baked goods servitude, and he feels like he's slowly going mad; if this goes on any longer he's going to start scrawling messages on the walls with fondant. Vamonos has a clean, fake kitchen for the purpose of appealing to health inspectors, but the real kitchen is hidden away in an empty room behind a wall that only slides open when the spice rack's removed; inside the empty room is a loose tile that leads to the secret kitchen. Vamonos must have been designed by a _Scooby-Doo_ villain.

So Jesse's left unsupervised to replicate the recipes that brought Los Frijoles Saltarines so much success. He's already had the recipe for Blue Sky beaten out of him—Jesse assumes they don't trust him working the blender on the shop floor because people might see him—and periodically Marco, Leonel, Tuco, or even Todd will come down for more frappuccino recipes. The amount of fight Jesse puts up depends on his mood, but after the Blue Sky ordeal—was a taser _really_ necessary?—he usually just gives it up.

On the third day, Tuco descends the ladder looking pissed beyond reason. He's not bringing down any food or supplies, so Jesse assumes this isn't a social visit. "Your cook is shit," Tuco growls, storming over to him and slamming a hand down on the counter. "It's been three days, and we're not seeing half the profit we should be." Tuco gives him the eye. "Are you tryin' to fuck me?"

Now there's an appetizing thought. "These things take time, man, I—"

"Bullshit!" Another slam. Tuco loves emphasis. "I saw how quick your place started makin' money once you got cookin'. Now, part of our deal was you make the same shit you made for Fring, and I don't put a bullet in your skull!"

Jesse knows that's an idle threat, because if Jesse dies his recipes die with him. So he's got a bit of leverage, at least. "I don't know what to tell you. I'm makin' the same stuff the same way I always have. Though"—he tugs at his restraints—"Mr. Fring doesn't keep me chained up like an animal."

Tuco makes a face, like Jesse's being unreasonable by wanting full control of his limbs.

"You just gonna keep me locked down here forever like fuckin' Cinderella? You don't think anybody's gonna wonder where I am?"

"No one's gonna be too shocked that you disappeared. You're a meth-head."

Jesse jerks a hand back to punch him, but his chains make any attack an impossibility. He ends up smacking himself in the face with his other hand. All Jesse can do is glare at Tuco and try to make him spontaneously combust with his mind. He really hopes Mike believes in his recovery enough to make an effort to look for him. Or even Walt. Christ, it's been three days; does Walt even know Jesse's missing, or does he think this is some sort of tantrum on Jesse's part?

Tuco lifts his eyebrows like he's remembered something. "Is that what you need? A little motivation?" He reaches into his pocket, and Jesse feels his heart sink in his chest. Oh no. "'Cause I got all the motivation you need right here." In Tuco's hand is a bulging bag of crystal meth.

Jesse shakes his head, wets his lips. "I don't—I don't want it."

Tuco ignores him and places a small piece in Jesse's hand. Jesse just stares at it, blank and unseeing. He's been clean for three months; why unravel all of that progress now?

"There's more where that came from," Tuco says, squeezing the bag to drive home the point. "You cook the same shit for us that you did for Fring..." He lets the promise hang in the air as he pockets the bag. "Now get back to work, or you're a dead man. You hear me?"

"Yeah, I'm a dead man."

Tuco climbs up the ladder, and Jesse waits until he hears the clang of the tile being dropped into place before he grumbles, "This kind of shit doesn't happen at fuckin' Starbucks," under his breath.

He places the piece of crystal on the counter and stares at it like it's insulted him. Every fiber of his being screams out in protest, because he's come so far and fought so hard. To throw that away would be a waste.

A waste of what? A better life? Jesse's not stupid; he knows Tuco has absolutely zero intentions of letting him go. It's not like Jesse has a quota to fill before he's set free. This is a life sentence unless he finds some way to escape. He's already being tortured and treated like a sub-human down here in this shitty kitchen-turned-dungeon with no windows or connection to the outside world. What would even be the point of tormenting himself further by refusing the only thing that might bring him momentary relief from this living hell?

So, for the first time in three months, Jesse takes another hit.

#

Mike shows up again later that afternoon looking more disgruntled than usual. He stalks right past Walt and barges into Gus' office unannounced. Walt stands by the door, makes no attempt to hide the fact that he's eavesdropping.

"I hate to admit it with every fiber of my being," Mike says, "but I think Walter was right. Maybe there is some foul play involved."

Gus says something that Walt can't quite catch.

"I found Jesse's car stashed in a junkyard a couple miles outside of town. Inside was a Vamonos cup."

An icy finger caresses Walt's spine. Jesse would never turn traitor, no matter how upset he was with Walt. Could Tuco have taken him by force?

"So," Mike says, "how do you wanna play this?"

There's a moment of tense silence, then Gus says, "Bring him back," in a voice that doesn't sound like his own.

"I'll head over there now, scope out the place," Mike says, then he's pushing the door open.

"So I was right," Walt gloats, but there's no joy in it. "Jesse's in trouble."

"Your priorities: aligned perfectly in one sentence."

Walt ignores that for now. "I'm going with you."

"No, you're not. You rush in trying to be Jesse's knight in shining armor and you'll get your ass shot or worse. My own personal feelings aside, I'm sure Jesse would be a little torn up about that."

Walt makes a face. "I think you're severely overestimating these people. It's a coffee shop."

"'These people' might have taken Jesse."

"All the more reason for me to be there," Walt insists. "I'm going with you."

Mike shoots him the "you're an idiot" look, but he doesn't say no.

Walt moves behind the counter and sidles up to Gale. "Can you handle things while I'm out?"

Gale looks like Walt's just entrusted him with the fate of the universe, nodding emphatically. "Y—yes, of course!"

Walt smiles. "Good."

Mike looks downright miserable when he and Walt get into the car. Walt notices a few cigarette butts stubbed out in the ashtray. "You smoke?"

Mike makes a grunting sound that Walt thinks is a no. Walt feels something squeeze his heart when he realizes the cigarettes are Jesse's. Jesse's been in Mike's car probably more than once. Walt wonders what they talk about, if they talk about him, what secrets Jesse shares with Mike that he doesn't yet trust with Walt.

"It's my fault," Walt says after a moment, watching the buildings pass by.

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to say, 'oh, no, it's not, Walter, don't beat yourself up'?"

"If I hadn't upset him...he wouldn't have left."

"He went to your place?"

Walt nods slowly.

Mike breathes out a deep sigh of relief, and Walt remembers that Jesse had been at Mike's the night he disappeared. "I told him to go home," Mike grouses under his breath.

Walt shrugs. "You know Jesse."

"Yeah, I do," Mike says in a way that's not reassuring at all. "What happened to Jesse isn't your fault, but you're sure as hell not blameless either."

"I would never hurt him," Walt insists in a grate of breath.

Mike scoffs. "What kind of man are you? You're supposed to watch his back, support him, let him make his own mistakes, because that's what a man does for the people he claims to love."

Walt wants to defend himself, but an argument doesn't come.

"But, no, instead you're the guy he has to watch his back for. The guy who risks the relapse of a stranger out of jealousy, because you just can't stand being second to anybody in Jesse's life." Mike's words rain down on him like bullets.

Walt scrubs a hand over his scalp. "This isn't helping anyone, Mike."

"_I_ feel a lot better," Mike says. He looks at Walt. "Oh, you want something to lift your spirits? I'm fresh out."

Smart-ass.


	17. Chapter 17

When Walt and Mike return from Vamonos, they immediately head into Gus' office to deliver the news. "I know Jesse's in there," Walt says. "They're selling his products—Blue Sky, those chili powder brownies..."

Mike sighs. "Forgive Walter's flair for the dramatic. There's still a possibility that Vamonos hired a new baker who isn't Jesse."

Gus steeples his fingers. Steepling looks good on him. "If that is true, how do you explain why his car is abandoned in a junkyard—with a Vamonos cup inside, no less?"

"And how do you explain his refusal to answer my calls?" Walt adds. "Has anyone else tried his phone?" Gus and Mike nod in unison. Walt spreads his hands as if that proves his point.

Mike rolls his eyes and takes a step toward Walt. "I got a simple explanation for you: he's sick of your jealous, manipulative crap, and Tuco offered him a job."

Walt clenches his jaw. Jesse or Gus must have told Mike about the Tuco incident.

"Walter, what exactly did you do that may have upset Jesse enough to abandon us?" Gus asks, suddenly stern.

Walt stares at him for a moment, tries to piece together an answer that won't get him fired. "I—I may have tried to persuade Jesse to keep his distance from someone who might influence him to relapse."

"By 'persuade,' he means 'planted meth on one of Jesse's friends,'" Mike cuts in, because he's a sharer. "A recovering addict, nonetheless."

Walt throws Mike a glare that could turn milk sour; Mike appears entirely unaffected by Walt's rage.

Gus has his eyes fixed on Walt in a way that would make a lesser man wither. "Is that why you needed the surveillance tape?" Gus asks, his gaze flicking to Mike for a second before settling back on Walt; he says it like it's a realization instead of a question. "I suppose I have to ask: _what_ were you thinking?"

"I wanted to protect Jesse from relapsing. He was getting close to this girl, and if she had a lapse of judgement she might bring Jesse along with her. I assume his promotion depends that he stays clean?"

"And you also assumed that Jesse has no free will of his own?" Gus accuses.

Walt's too busy being embarrassed to feel offended.

"I would not have offered Jesse the promotion if I thought he exhibited poor judgement," Gus says. "As his employer and his friend, I trust Jesse. You, as his partner, should do the same." His stare hardens. "Did you ever stop to think about that poor young woman's future? That by trying to protect Jesse from a relapse you may have caused hers?"

Walt had thought about that, and it haunted his soul for a few nights, but in the end it came down to three little words:

Her or Jesse.

The well-being of a thousand strangers isn't worth harming one Jesse Pinkman or Skyler White or Walter Junior or baby Holly. It may seem cold, but that's how Walt sees it.

"I'm going to ensure that this girl gets the help she needs," Gus says. "If I find that you had a hand in her relapse, our business together is concluded."

Walt's stomach lurch up into his throat. To his credit, Mike keeps a stone-cold poker face—at least he's not gloating. Yet.

But losing his job feels miles away now, because Jesse's still out there alone and hurting and scared, and Walt doesn't have the slightest idea of how to bring him home.

#

Jesse's grown accustomed to the hum of power above him over the past three days, so each time it shuts off and goes quiet that's when he knows night has fallen and Vamonos is closed. He's always left unsupervised—which, if he's honest, is a huge oversight in the evil mastermind department—and there's really nothing stopping him from breaking free of his restraints and escaping, save for not knowing what lies in wait above him. But there's no way he's staying down here another goddamn second. He broke his three-month sober record for these people; seriously, fuck them.

So Jesse bides his time, waits about an hour after the thrum of electricity has died upstairs before throwing open drawers in search of something with which to pick his cuffs. The best tool he finds for the job is a whisk. He pries it apart, uses one of the rods to pop open the lock on his handcuffs. The cuffs and chains drop to the floor with a clang. He reaches behind himself and feels for the heavy hook keeping him tethered to the ceiling pulley. He wrenches the hook from the chains around his waist and uses the newly-appropriated whisk to open the remaining locks around his ankles.

God, it feels so fucking good to let those shackles drop off. Now to climb out.

Jesse builds a pyramid of pots, pans, and various cookware to elevate him high enough to reach the ladder on the other side of the kitchen. He grabs the rung, pulls the ladder through the entryway. Once he climbs out of the kitchen, he's confronted with an entirely new problem: the secret doorway.

He remembers watching it open when they threw him in this hole: the spice rack's lifted up, and somehow that activates a latch that allows the wall to be pushed aside. There's got to be a way to open it from the other side, right?

Using the light from the kitchen downstairs as illumination, he lets his eyes adjust to the darkness and studies his surroundings. He can see the way the spice rack fits into the slats in the wall. The wall seems to be built like a sliding glass door, with a track at the bottom hidden inside the baseboards. He pulls the ladder up and leans it against the wall, carefully lifting the first notch of the spice rack out of its hole. He tries to peer out of the hole, but there's not much to see; the shop is pitch-black, and the spice rack is blocking most of his vision. He grips the edge of the wall with his free hand and pulls. It budges just an inch, but he can feel there's some more give to it, like the wheels are stuck. Jesse tries again, pulls as hard as he can. The wall slides free, and Jesse vaguely remembers something about physics as the resistance is gone and he's knocked off of the ladder.

Shit, this is probably going to hurt.

He lands on the ground with a thud. The ladder drops on top of him, but he barely registers the pain, because so many other things are hurting right now. He drags in a breath, tries to push himself up. He's aware that this is the worst stage of the escape plan to start assessing his injuries, so he climbs to his feet—a Herculean fucking effort—and staggers out into the shop.

For a brief moment, Jesse contemplates searching for his keys and phone, but he realizes that's beyond stupid, and getting the fuck out of here should be his number one priority right now. He can't remember if the shop has cameras facing the floor, so he just assumes the Wonder Twins know about his jailbreak and are on their way to throw his ass back in. He pushes open the front door and starts running.

The cold night air feels good on his face. It even smells good, despite the thick cloud of gasoline odor. Clearly, he's been locked away in that kitchen-dungeon too long. Fear nestles in his throat, but Jesse doesn't stop running. He sprints down the block, passing by weak streetlights and poorly-illuminated businesses. Jesse's not too familiar with this neighborhood, but he figures being out in the open poses some sort of deterrent for Tuco and crew if they wanted to snatch him.

The people loitering around the block barely pay attention to the crazed man running full-speed down the sidewalk. Everything passes by in a blur. Jesse rushes by a group of teenagers gathered at the corner. He thinks he sees two crack-heads down an alleyway, one about to blow the other, but Jesse's not going to stop and find out. Though if he's honest, he'd rather be blowing a dude for crack than running from sociopaths intent on making him bake for their shop.

This is Jesse's life now. Un-fucking-believable.

His legs feel tingly. His heart hammers a mile a minute in his chest. His toe drags, but he manages to catch his balance again without smacking face-first onto the pavement. He breathes in huge, frantic gulps of air that still aren't enough to keep his lungs from burning.

Jesse stops when he reaches a pay-phone that's far enough away from Vamonos that he feels safe.

The first thing he does is call Mike.

#

Mike's cell phone trills just as Walt's about to go home for the night. Walt's halfway to the door when Mike says, "It's Jesse."

Walt rushes over to Mike, tries to grab the phone from him. Mike swats him away like he's an obnoxious mosquito. "Yeah, kid, I'm here," Mike says. "Alright. Just find someplace safe and I'll pick you up. And don't talk to the cops until I get there."

"Is he all right?" Gus asks when Mike hangs up.

"He will be," Mike says, standing up to leave. "He said he broke out of Vamonos."

Walt shadows him to the door. "I'm going with you."

Mike mouth-glares at him. "No, you're not. There's a reason Jesse called me first. Let me handle this, and you can put your scent all over him later. If he lets you."

Walt wants to argue that, but there's a good possibility that Jesse's still pissed at him, and if Mike's the first person Jesse wants to see after a harrowing ordeal, well, Walt dug his own grave. So he lets Mike go and prays for Jesse's safety.

#

Almost immediately after Jesse hangs up the phone, iron arms wrap around him from behind, and a hand clamps over his mouth. He kicks his legs in a mad struggle. His heel connects with something hard, maybe a shin or a kneecap. Then his heart stops and his insides clench, as if an electric shock's coursed through his body. The pain is excrutiating, all-encompassing, and it saps the fight out of him like a switch has been flipped.

Jesse's gasping for air and trying not to throw up as he's shoved into the backseat of the Escalade. The twins fence him in on either side while Jesse writhes in agony on the floor. The driver's side door opens, and Tuco gets inside.

"You seriously thought you could just escape like that?" Tuco laughs like he's heard a hilarious joke. "Man, put steel-plated balls on this guy!"

The twins smirk but don't laugh, as if the sound of laughter might ruin their stoicism.

The car starts to move. Jesse's still remembering how to breathe properly. "But for real though," Tuco says, "I tried to be a reasonable businessman. I gave you some of the purest shit this side of the border and this is how you thank me?" He shakes his head. "That's straight-up disrespect, _homes_."

Jesse's mouth burns from the taste of blood on his tongue. His muscles ache, shivery and loose. "Why don't you just go ahead and kill me," he grinds out, "'cause there's no way I'm gonna be your kitchen bitch any more."

Tuco chuckles. "Why don't you wait and see what we got for ya?"

Jesse struggles to push himself up, but the shock of the taser took too much out of him. His arms wobble, and he drops back to the floor, spent. He feels the car slow to a stop, then the twins carry him inside Vamonos through the back entrance. Jesse closes his eyes, gets used to the jostling rhythm of his newfound method of transportation. The twins dump him on the tile floor in the kitchen. He bites down on the pain as his limbs are shackled again.

Tuco climbs down the ladder and digs something out of his pocket. Panic seizes Jesse at the thought of the meth making its grand reappearance, but when he blinks away the clouds in his eyes he realizes Tuco's holding a cell phone. Jesse's cell phone.

"I thought you might pull the whole 'I'm not gonna work for you' spiel, so I got a little _insurance_." Tuco grins. "Your boyfriend left some really heart-warming messages for you. It'd be a real shame if something happened to his pretty blonde ex-wife, wouldn't it?" Jesse's stomach drops. "How many weeks she got left 'til that baby comes?"

A crippling wave of horror crashes into Jesse. He whispers, "No," and swallows something hard in his throat. He finds it hard to breathe.

"Or what about that son of his? Poor kid, I don't think he'd get very far with those crutches."

"Don't fucking touch them," Jesse growls. Anger flares up in his veins, but he's still too woozy and disoriented to act on it. It sits in his gut like a hard knot of rage he can taste on his tongue. "Do whatever you want to me, but leave them alone."

"Yeah, I don't think so. See, obviously, you got no problem putting your dumb ass on the line. I got a life, y'know. I can't spend all my time chasin' you around 'cause you got outta your cage. But maybe you'll think twice if somebody else's ass is on the chopping block."

The air goes out of Jesse's lungs as if they're popped balloons. His chest hitches with a sob.

Tuco leans in close; Jesse can almost count the individual diamonds in the man's grill. "Next time I ain't gonna fuck around. I'll waste every single of one them and make your boyfriend watch. Then I'll kill him too. Got it?"

Jesse feels his blood run cold. Tuco climbs the ladder and shuts him inside.

#

Walt startles to attention when Mike returns to the shop alone. He looks even more disgruntled than usual. This can't mean anything good. "Where's Jesse?"

Mike shakes his head. "I couldn't find him."

Walt throws out his arms in bewilderment, like the words don't make sense in that order. "You couldn't _find_ him?"

"No, because Tuco's guys probably grabbed him!" Mike snarls. "Don't you think he would have called me again if he was still out there?"

Walt knows it's irrational, but he can't help but feel like maybe Jesse would be here right now if it'd been him instead of Mike. "So why don't we just go there now and get him?"

"Because we don't know what we're up against," Mike says. "They've probably doubled the security now that Jesse's managed to escape, and, remember, we don't know where exactly they're keeping him. I know it goes against your very nature, but don't be an idiot, Walter."

Walt really hates when Mike's right. He sighs and drops into a chair, defeated. It's late and he's tired and he just wants Jesse home safe.

Gus has been quiet most of the night, but he asks, "What if we knew where to find Jesse?" At Mike and Walt's bewildered looks, he continues, "If we were able to obtain the blueprints for Vamonos, would that be of any help?"

Mike scratches his chin like he's thinking it over. "Any illegal addition to the building isn't going to be on the blueprints."

"But it's a start," Gus says, and it sounds like a question.

Mike gives a half-shrug.

"Why don't we just call the police?" Walt asks.

Mike stares at him like he's an idiot. "The cops hear Jesse's a recovering addict, and they'll just assume he ran off on a relapse."

"Yet he managed to leave his car in a junkyard?" Walt cuts in.

"There's no hard evidence of foul play," Mike says. "Just loose threads. I don't like it any more than you do, but that's how it is. So unless we can somehow prove that Jesse's in there against his will, it's on us to get him out."

#

Walt doesn't sleep much—if at all—that night. The bed is too cold and too big for him now. Jesse used to sleep tucked up close against him, limbs tangled with Walt's own and his face buried in Walt's neck or chest. Walt reads over the texts Jesse sent, finds himself charmed all over again:

_**what's a pirate's favorite amino acid? Arrrrginine**_

_**if I were a dj my name would be dj enzyme cuz im always breakin it down**_

_**what did the scientist say when he found 2 isotopes of helium? HeHe**_

He knows that focusing on what he's missing is not a helpful use of his time. But it's easy as hell to get sucked down the road of grief and self-pity, so he does. If Jesse ever knew the depths of Walt's sentimentality, he would literally never stop making fun of Walt ever.

He wishes Jesse were here to make fun of him now.

#

Walt joins Mike in Gus' office the next morning where Gus presents the blueprints for Vamonos.

"How did you get these so fast?" Walt wonders aloud.

Gus smiles. "I have my methods of persuasion."

Mike gives Walt a look that says it's best not to ask what those methods are.

Gus spreads the blueprints over his desk. "Walter, you were in there yesterday. Any of this look familiar to you?"

Walt nods slowly, his eyes raking over the pages. Vamonos is built almost identically to Los Frijoles Saltarines—right down to the placement of the office and the break room. But Walt doesn't remember seeing an office door at Vamonos; here, the office is adjacent to the kitchen, with the door facing the shop floor. Walt points to that particular space on the map. "This room...what is it?"

"An office?" Gus ventures.

"That's what I thought, but I didn't see a door. And it wouldn't make sense for the door to be anywhere else, because otherwise it would open into the kitchen here."

Gus rubs his chin. "You think the room was appropriated to be, what, another kitchen? It's not big enough."

Walt frowns, because, yeah, he's just making blind stabs in the dark here. But blind stabs are pretty much all he has at the moment. He shrugs his shoulders.

"What about the break room? You think they could be keeping Jesse there?" Mike asks.

"I don't know," Walt says through his teeth, because he's worse than useless here if he doesn't know how to help. He's never been the dumbest person in the room before.

Gale pulls the door open and sticks his head inside the room. "Walter, you, uh, you have visitors."

Walt feels a hiccup of hope that it might be Jesse—or even Tuco coming to gloat—but when he follows Gale out he's disappointed to see Badger, Skinny Pete, and Combo standing there looking sheepish. "Hey, Mr. White," Badger says.

Skinny Pete nods his head. "'Sup?"

"This is the guy Jesse's with?" Combo asks in an incredulous whisper.

"Dude!" Badger elbows him in the side.

Walt has so many better things he could be doing right now than wasting time with Jesse's idiot friends. "What can I help you with?"

"Have you seen Jesse?" Badger asks. "We've been trying to text him the last couple days, but we haven't heard anything from him. Did he change his number or something?"

"We figured we'd ask you 'cause you guys are...y'know," Skinny Pete adds. Combo makes a face, like he wants to say something but doesn't want to be rude.

"Jesse is...missing," Walt says.

Combo's eyes widen. "Missing? Like back-of-the-milk-carton missing?"

Walt nods. "We think the owner of Vamonos took him and is forcing him to bake for them"—he gets a good look at their faces, none of which are encouraging—"and, yes, I realize how ridiculous this all sounds out loud, but you're just going to have to trust me."

"Vamonos..." Skinny Pete looks at Badger and Combo. "Is that the coffee place with the weird pipes?"

Walt lifts an eyebrow. "Weird pipes?"

"Yeah, they had these pipes that went down into the ground," Badger explains. "I thought that was kinda weird."

"How do you know this?"

"'Cause your boss sorta hired us to bust 'em up," Skinny Pete says in a low voice. "Said the owner was hasslin' Jesse."

That must have been after Tuco's assault with a deadly, uh, frappuccino. Vamonos had been closed for a week or two after that. So it stands to reason that Tuco would want to even the score, especially if he lost business due to Gus' retaliation.

"These pipes...where were they located?"

Badger thinks for a moment. "They came outta the back of the place, but they went into the ground, like they go to an underground lair or something." He looks over at his friends. "Wouldn't that be awesome?"

Underground lair... Could Tuco be keeping Jesse underground?

"Holy shit," Walt murmurs.

Badger stops talking and snaps his attention back to Walt. "What? You know where he is?"

Walt holds up a hand, signaling them to give him a second and let his brain catch up to this train of thought. "Do you think you could break those pipes again?"

The three of them grin. "Hell yeah!"

Walt motions for them to follow him, leads them into Gus' office. "I have an idea."

Gus folds his hands on his desk. Mike looks inherently suspicious. "I'd like to hear it," Gus says.

"These three tell me you hired them to break the pipes at Vamonos," Walt starts. Gus nods in the affirmative. "They also told me that the pipes went into the ground. Now, Badger here raised the possibility of an underground lair."

Badger beams at the attention. This must be the first time in his entire life one of his crazy ideas has ever been taken seriously.

"What if that's where Jesse is? If the pipes go into the ground, there must be some sort of underground facility that's using them, right?" Walt continues, like he's suddenly an expert. He looks at Badger and the others. "You said the pipes were in the back." Walt hands them the blueprints and points to the kitchen. "Would you say they were right around here?"

"Yeah, it was, like, in the middle of that back wall near the ground."

"Then they're hiding him directly below the kitchen," Gus says.

"An underground kitchen," Skinny Pete marvels. "That is off the chain, yo!"

"I know!" Badger shouts, with feeling.

"So, what's your idea, Walter?" Mike asks, cutting to the chase.

"We get Badger and friends to break the pipes again. Divide Tuco's forces to a more manageable number. I figure Tuco and the silent twins are involved here, but let's throw in maybe two extras to be on the safe side. So that's five against"—he counts up the number of people in the room—"six."

Gus shakes his head. "Five. If we are caught and Tuco decides to press charges, I would like no legal culpability in the matter."

"We're your employees," Walt challenges. "You have at least a modicum of responsibility if things go south."

"Arguably. I'd rather not be caught at the scene of the crime. Plausible deniability."

Walt can't blame the guy for wanting to cover his ass. "Okay, so five against five."

"But those guys are ripped, man," Combo says. "They'd tear Skinny Pete in half like a phone book." He glances at his friend. "No offense."

"Why would I be offended?" Skinny Pete says, his face a study in offense.

Mike rises from his chair with a sigh. "If we're gonna do this, let's do it right."

#

Saul Goodman's office is unusually busy this morning, but Mike leads their little troupe straight through the unwashed masses and right up to Saul's door. Huell stops them from going inside. "Not so fast. Why don't you wait a while?"

"We don't need to talk to Goodman," Mike explains. "We want you."

Huell's eyes widen. "You a cop?"

Mike gives a half-smile. "Not anymore." He motions with his chin to the door. "Let us in. It'll just take a second."

Huell debates the idea for a second, then he opens the door to Saul's personal office and sticks his head in. "Can I get a moment?"

Saul's voice sounds from inside. "Sure, what do you need, Huell?" Mike leads the group into the room. Saul looks up from his desk and scrambles to hide the tall cup of coffee clearly emblazoned with the Vamonos logo. "Oh, hey, it's you guys! Been a while, huh?"

Walt frowns. "You filthy traitor."

Saul throws out an arm, takes a sip with his other hand. "What was I supposed to do? They got Blue Sky and damn good cookies—finally."

"They also have Jesse," Walt says. Saul is the last person who needs to be wasting his time right now.

Saul lets out a harsh laugh. "Seriously? Does that put a strain in you guys' relationship, or does brand loyalty not get in the way of the sex—which, by the way, I'm doing my best _not_ to picture."

"Saul, stop talking," Walt growls. "We're here for Huell, not you."

Saul looks dejected but does as he's told.

Mike turns his attention to Huell. "Did Saul hire you for personal protection or just intimidation?"

"Both," Huell says with a little shrug.

"You got a gun or a taser?"

"Maybe."

"Does this look like _Soldier of Fortune_ to you?" Saul interjects. "Don't try to hire my guys as your own personal assassins!"

"We don't need Huell assassinating anyone," Walt says, fully aware of how ridiculous those words sound in that order. "We just need him for manpower."

"Manpower? Jesus, are you planning a heist?"

"We're trying to get Jesse back from Vamonos."

"Yeah," Badger adds, "they've got him in, like, an underground kitchen."

Saul lifts an eyebrow in that way of his. "Is there something in the water over there that's making you guys stupid?"

"Who you need me to tase?" Huell asks Mike.

"We don't know who exactly, just that we need somebody who can," Mike says. "Right now we're lookin' at five-five odds. An extra man on our team would give us the upper hand."

Saul holds up a hand. "Hey, hey, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if you want your little Shawshank Redemption covered under attorney-client privilege, each of you hand me a dollar right now."

They all do as instructed. Once Saul's pocketed the bills, he says, "So, tell me what's going on."

Walt gets him up to speed fairly quickly. Saul makes a variety of discouraging faces and noises throughout the explanation. "Have you considered the possibility of cameras?" he asks when Walt's finished.

Mike nods. "They managed to pick Jesse up from the time he called to the time I got there. Trust me, they got cameras inside watching the place."

"Then we can either black the cameras out, or avoid them entirely," Walt explains. "I think the pipe diversion will work. They see us on camera, fine. They'll also see their pipes busted. Divide and conquer."

"And what happens if that doesn't work?" Mike asks. "You got any bright ideas?"

"I'm full of them," Walt says with a smirk.

#

Tuco comes down to the basement kitchen that afternoon looking particularly smug. Jesse braces himself for the worst. The sound of boots on tile drives him mad.

"Your boyfriend dropped this off for you," Tuco says, each word laced with disdain. He hands Jesse a scrap of paper with numbers written on it. "Said you'd know what it means, that it's a recipe you two came up with. It better be good."

Hope swells in Jesse's chest; Walt knows he's here. Walt knows. Mike must have told him, and that means Gus probably knows too. Three people are out there trying to bring him home. Jesse doesn't feel so alone anymore.

Tuco leaves without another word—or a bump of crystal, which Jesse's desperately craving right now, but he's not going to say it out loud. Instead, he focuses on the note Walt's left for him:

_**75 21 92 63 (2) 7 53 52**_

Oh, that's helpful. That's helpful as shit. Thanks, Mr. White.

Jesse grunts and sinks to the floor, frustrated tears prickling in his eyes. He sucks in a breath and tries to focus, swallowing the clotted emotion in his throat. Walt wouldn't have sent this to him if he didn't think Jesse could understand it. He's trusting Jesse to decode this.

So what does it mean?

Jesse thinks the numbers might be coordinates for something, but Walt would know he'd have no way of pinpointing them—Jesse's not a human GPS machine.

Maybe Walt left a clue in the explanation he'd given Tuco: "a recipe you two came up with." But they've never collaborated on a recipe beyond Walt offering lame-ass chemistry facts about the ingredients and baking process.

Could it be something chemistry-related? An equation, a formula...

The answer hits Jesse like a cinder block to the solar plexus.

Elements. The numbers represent elements on the periodic table.

Walt's trying to send him a message.

Jesse grins to himself. Making that box for Walt's Christmas present earned him a damn good familiarity with the periodic table. His heart hammers in his chest. He can do this. He can figure this out. The kitchen is devoid of writing utensils, so Jesse makes do with a pastry bag and scrawls the element abbreviations onto the cookies cooling on the rack.

75. Rhenium.

21. Scandium.

92. Uranium.

63. Europium.

2. Helium.

7. Nitrogen.

53. Iodine.

52. Tellurium.

Jesse steps back and reads the message. "ReScUEuHeNITe." He glares at the cookies for wasting his time. He picks one up, about to eat the evidence, when he freezes, because now the message spells something new: "ReScUEu NITe."

What if the number two in Walt's original message was literally that? What if it wasn't supposed to mean the second element on the periodic table? Walt had written it in parenthesis to distinguish it from the other numbers. He wouldn't have done that if it was meant to follow the same rules as the others.

That would make the decoded message read: "ReScUEu 2 NITe."

Jesse actually laughs out loud.


	18. Chapter 18

Walt, Mike, Badger, Skinny Pete, Combo, and Huell rendezvous around the dumpsters behind Vamonos that night. Their getaway car—Walt's ugly-as-sin Aztek—is parked a block away. Walt's itching to put the plan into action, but Mike holds up a hand, as if sensing Walt's impatience. "Wait."

"For what?"

"We got one more on the way."

Could Gus have changed his mind? Maybe Mike hired somebody special for their little rescue mission, not entirely trusting a fifty-year-old ex-chemistry teacher, three junkies, and an out-of-shape bodyguard for the job.

Walt's lofty expectations sink in his chest like a dead weight when he sees Gale sneaking toward them in a way that's the opposite of subtle. "Oh, Jesus..."

Mike shrugs like the matter's out of his hands. "He wanted to come."

"Why couldn't you get Gus?" Walt grumbles, knowing full well what Mike's answer would be.

Gale's all smiles as he huddles in with the group. "This is gonna be fun!"

"'Fun' isn't exactly the word I would use," Walt says. He looks over at Badger, Skinny Pete, and Combo, who each have their pipe-destroying tools at the ready. "You three go first. Keep a look-out for Tuco and his men. Huell, back them up."

Huell gives him a nod, and the four of them scurry across the lot. Mike, Walt, and Gale move toward the back door, keeping to the shadows. Mike takes something that looks like a credit card out of his pocket. He jams it into the door opening, searches for the right spot to push the lock back. He turns the knob, and the door opens.

Walt and Gale follow him inside. Mike surveyed the place earlier when Walt delivered his message to Jesse, and he determined that the employee lounge isn't where Jesse's being held captive. So they head straight for the kitchen, keeping low and ducking underneath the eye of the camera mounted above the register.

"There's no audio recording in here," Mike says once they get into the kitchen. "So feel free to make noise or warn me if you're gonna do something stupid." He raps his knuckles on the walls, listening to the sound it makes. Or maybe he's trying to communicate with Jesse through Morse code. Gale and Walt spread out over the kitchen, searching for the entrance to Jesse's dungeon. Walt remembers the blueprints and moves toward the far left wall where a spice rack hangs. He notices a gap near the edge and gets his fingers in. He tries to pull the wall aside. There's a bit of give, but not much.

"Mike. Do you think this leads somewhere?"

Mike shines a pocket flashlight up and down the crevice, as if looking for a switch or a lever. Gale drags a metal chair across the floor and stands on it, reaching out for the spice rack.

"What are you doing?" Walt hisses.

"Maybe there's a switch or something behind this." Gale lifts up the rack. A clicking sound echoes through the kitchen like a bone snapping. "Or the rack _is_ the switch. Try it now."

Walt pulls, and the wall-door slides aside to reveal a dark, empty room. This is the office.

Mike shines his light into the blackness. "Jesse?" he calls out. There's a ladder propped up against the far wall. Curious.

That's when Walt hears a noise. He freezes, looks at Mike. "Did you hear that?"

Mike nods, motions with his chin in the direction of the sound: inside the empty office. He takes a couple steps inside and flicks the light from corner to corner. "Jesse?"

A thump sounds from below, like a downstairs neighbor knocking on the ceiling with a broom handle. "Jesse, are you down there?" Walt calls.

Two thumps this time.

Mike drags his flashlight over the tile floor. "I guess the entrance is under one of these tiles," he says, loud enough for Jesse to hear. "But which one?"

Another thump sounds, and the flashlight darts to the source of the noise: a tile in the middle of the floor. Walt bends down, gets a grip on the edges of the tile and lifts it up. Peering up at him from the underground kitchen is Jesse, brandishing a wooden spoon.

"Mr. White?" His face is bruised and beaten, dried blood caked beneath his nose. His hands and feet are bound with shackles and chains. Walt's heart breaks in his chest at the sight.

"Jesse, we're gonna get you outta here, just hang on," Mike says, fetching the ladder and feeding it down the hole.

Jesse's eyes go wide in panic. "No, no, what are you guys doing here? Mr. White, you have to run! You can't be here! If they know I'm gone, they'll kill Mr. White's family!"

"Jesse, we're not leaving here without you," Walt says.

Jesse gives him a dumbfounded look. "Yo, you got a hearing problem? They're gonna kill your wife and kids!"

"Ex-wife," Walt corrects, because _of course_ that's what's important right now.

Mike shakes his head. "No, they're not. It's an empty threat. They run the risk of you never baking for them again, and their own personal risk is way too high. If they actually go through with it, one word to the cops and they'll get busted. Trust me, they're just blowin' smoke. Now climb the damn ladder and let's get outta here."

"Yo, did you forget that they kidnapped me?" Jesse reminds him, but he takes the rungs one at a time. "Isn't murder the next logical step?" Mike puts out a hand for him to grab onto when he nears the top of the ladder.

"He's got a point," Gale says. He extends a hand as well, and Jesse takes it.

"Gale?"

"Yeah, the whole gang's here. Well, except for Gus," Mike says. "Now shut up and move."

They pull Jesse up and out of the hole.

That's when the front door bursts open and Tuco shouts, "I fuckin' warned you about escaping, didn't I?"

Jesse panics and rushes to climb back into the kitchen, but Walt stops him with a firm hold and keeps him still. Jesse struggles in the embrace, whimpers, "No, no, please," and Walt murmurs, "I'm not leaving without you," at Jesse's ear. "Trust me. Just this once."

He passes Jesse off to Mike and motions for the three of them to stay still and out of sight before he steps out of the office. Tuco's pointing a gun at him. Walt tries not to panic, but having a gun pointed at your face tends to give you tunnel-vision. "Is the gun really necessary?" he says, mostly to warn Mike to keep his own firearm at the ready.

Tuco approaches the counter, keeping the gun pointed straight at Walt. "I should'a known you had somethin' to do with this."

"What do you want with Jesse?"

"What do you think? His recipes are the bomb." Walt's mouth twitches into a smirk. "Well, they were—until the little bitch decided to hold out on us!" Tuco shouts it like Jesse might hear him.

"What do you mean, 'hold out'? You have him locked up like a prisoner. He has no reason to hold out on you."

"When he cooks for you and Fring, your place gets crazy business. When he cooks for us, we don't get shit. Still don't think he's holdin' out?"

Walt feels a sickening wave of guilt crash over him. Jesse has no way of knowing Walt added the monosodium glutamate to the sugar at Los Frijoles Saltarines; the recipes don't have the same impact without the additive. Every bruise on Jesse's face is a direct result of Walt's deception, a visual representation of how much damage he's caused.

"Jesse's not cheating you," Walt grates out, like every word pains him. Even if Jesse was remotely close to forgiving him for what he did to Jane, this admission will be the final nail in Walt's coffin. But if confessing here could save Jesse... "I added monosodium glutamate to our sugar supply. Jesse had no idea it was in there."

Tuco's brow furrows in confusion, like he didn't anticipate this.

"Monosodium glutamate is an additive that enhances flavor," Walt elaborates. "That's why you're not seeing the same profits as our place." It feels like a weight off of his chest and an iron ball to sink him to the ocean floor. "Don't punish Jesse for my choices."

Tuco lowers the gun, clenches his jaw like he thinks this might be some sort of trap.

And it absolutely is.

In a moment shorter than a snap, Walt pulls a vial out of his jacket pocket and flings it at Tuco's feet. The vial bursts open in a powerful blast that shakes the ground and blows out the windows. A thick cloud of smoky fog fills the air. Walt stumbles through the haze, blindly reaching out to feel his way to the back door. He can hear frenzied footsteps through the ringing in his ears; he hopes like hell Jesse, Mike, and Gale took advantage of the opening.

Walt throws open the back door and staggers out into the parking lot. The fresh night air flushes out his lungs.

"What the hell was that?" Mike shouts.

Walt calls back, "Fulminated mercury!"

"You wanna warn me next time you bring out an explosive?"

"Next time?" Walt spots Badger, Skinny Pete, Combo, and Huell fending off two huge, angry-looking twins. Shit. The four of them might outnumber the twins, but the twins have the size advantage—and probably more training in bruising people. Walt thinks on his feet. "Gale, take Jesse to the car."

Gale does as he's ordered and disappears into the night. Mike grips his gun tighter. "How do you wanna play this?"

Walt opens his mouth to speak just as the back door bangs open again and Tuco emerges. "I'm gonna kill you—"

_Pow_! A gun goes off, the sound still loud despite the silencer. Tuco falls to the ground, screaming and clutching his leg. Blood flows through the cracks between his fingers.

Walt's head whirls around to look at the twins. They're frozen in place; witnessing Mike shoot their boss must have thrown them for a loop. All of a sudden, time seems to slow down. Skinny Pete bashes his wrench into Twin One's kneecap. A crunching sound pierces the air, and Walt knows Pete's hit pay dirt. Twin One goes down with a bloodcurdling cry. Combo tackles him to the ground, knees on either side of him to make sure he stays down. Badger swings his crowbar and strikes Twin Two across the back of the skull.

Sirens wail in the distance. Walt hurries toward the melee and wills his legs to move faster. He feels like he's trudging through morphine-infused molasses. Twin Two stumbles from the blow to the head and falls to the ground face-first. He puts his arms out to catch his fall, but Walt is ready. Walt kicks him hard in the ribs. Twin Two grunts and rolls onto his back. His blazer falls open, revealing a pistol holstered at his side.

If Walt doesn't get the gun before Twin Two does, they're all dead.

As if reading Walt's mind, Badger throws a kick to Twin Two's ribs. Walt drops down in a panicked reach for the gun. But Twin Two is faster. He gets his fingers around the grip, and Walt shoves Twin Two's hands over his head so the barrel's pointed at the sky. "A little help here?"

Badger doesn't reach for the gun. Instead, he whacks Twin Two's hands with the end of the crowbar. Twin Two gives a shout of pain, instinctively dropping the gun to cradle his wounded hand like a baby bird.

The gun skitters across the concrete. Walt throws himself off of Twin Two and scrambles for the pistol. An iron grip clamps around his ankle, and Walt feels himself being dragged. He kicks out blindly, landing a heel strike that slackens the hold on his leg. Then he's pulling himself free, because Huell's got a taser jammed into Twin Two's abdomen. Walt hurries across the lot and grabs the pistol, points it straight at Twin Two and says, "It's over."

#

The sun's peeking over the horizon by the time they're done talking to the police. Saul showed up after a call from Mike and took on the role of weathered attorney. Jesse was up front and honest about his ordeal, letting the bruises and shackles speak for themselves. Hard to fake that kind of thing. The surveillance footage would show Jesse's prior escape attempt and the events that transpired inside the shop, so Walt doesn't worry too much. Tuco and the twins were wheeled away in an ambulance. The questions came to an abrupt halt when the police learned that Tuco confessed to everything in exchange for heavy-duty painkillers.

So, a clusterfuck, as Saul had poetically put it, but nothing too damaging.

Around noon, Jesse calls Mike asking for a ride home from the hospital. Walt offers to go with him, but Mike says Jesse would prefer his absence. Walt doesn't argue with that.

Gus graciously gave them all the next few days off—mostly for Jesse's benefit than anything else—so all Walt can do is go home and wait for Jesse to send some sort of message that he wants Walt's presence. Walt does what he can while he waits and places a call to Hank about Vamonos' secret kitchen. He tidies up and tries not to think about sharing this space with Jesse. He'll be lucky if Jesse even grants him a phone call telling him to go fuck himself.

He doesn't know how everything got so screwed up between them, and therein lies the problem with the moral compass. You don't just slip; big, grand leaps of evil often aren't that monumental after all. You start out gradually, doing slighty shady things for what you think are justifiable reasons. But rationalizing your actions away only makes it easier to point the needle further south, incrementally chipping away at your morality until your entire direction has shifted.

Walt thinks that's what happened with Jesse, and it happened in small little pushes, imperceptible to the eye. He'll swear on his life that he loves Skyler, but he knows she never respected him or truly needed him. Until his fiftieth birthday, Walter White was a wimp not even in control of his own life. So he made a change. He rationalized that the passion was gone with Skyler and got a divorce, told himself it was for the best. Then Jesse came along, misguided and needy, and made him feel like a man. He thought, "why not?", because he was divorced and it wouldn't be an _affair_, and he was finally in control of his life.

Then Jesse didn't need him so much anymore, and Walt spiked the sugar to have a hand in Jesse's success. When Jesse started flirting with disaster and getting too close to Jane, Walt could justify one more transgression to make sure Jesse stayed his.

Every shift on his moral compass happened gradually, and Walt couldn't even see it until it was written on Jesse's face in grotesque shades of red and purple.

If Jesse has any sense, he won't call Walt.

#

Jesse immediately takes a hot shower once he gets home. He doesn't even care if Mike's still hanging around; he hasn't showered in at least four days, and that needs to be remedied right now. He breathes in the steam and lets the water pour over him. He'd almost forgotten how good it feels to just _relax_. Jesse stands there under the spray for about ten minutes before he starts using soap.

When he gets out of the shower he's already fading fast, so he gives his teeth a half-assed brushing before throwing on an old, holey t-shirt and the first clean pair of boxers he finds. Mike clears his throat from the hallway. "You decent, kid?"

"You're still here?" Jesse asks in disbelief, but, really, he shouldn't be surprised. Mike's awesome like that.

"Of course." Mike helps him into bed, and Jesse doesn't argue with him. It feels nice to have someone take care of him now after being treated like shit for the last couple of days. Mike reaches into his pocket, takes out Jesse's phone, wallet, and keys and places them on the night table. "Any reason you called me first? That night you tried to escape"—Jesse shuts his eyes, unwilling to remember—"you called me. Not Gus, not Walter. Not even the cops."

"Mr. White wouldn't—wouldn't understand." Jesse whimpers, drags a hand over his face. "I thought he'd look at me and just know, and he'd blame me. But I had to! They wouldn't let me..."

Mike breathes out a deep sigh, but there's no judgement there. "They made you get high, didn't they?"

Jesse nods and whines a pathetic noise of distress.

"It's not your fault, Jesse," Mike says, and he sounds like he means it. Jesse loves that about Mike, how he can tell you clichés and platitudes in a way that doesn't seem rehearsed or detached. "You know that, right?"

Jesse nods, though he still hates himself.

Mike frowns. "It's not your fault. Say it."

"It's not my fault," Jesse mumbles, but he doesn't believe it.

Mike gets to his feet. "You need anything? Something to eat, drink?"

Jesse shakes his head. "I just need sleep."

Mike nods like he expected that answer. "All right. Let me know if you change your mind."

Jesse falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He wakes up to a frightening chasm of blackness. The sun had been setting when he went to bed, so he figures maybe it's early the next morning. Jesse drags himself upright and stumbles out of bed to push the curtains open. Moonlight knifes through the blinds and provides adequate illumination. Jesse looks out the window and sees his car parked out front. Good ol' Mike.

His throat feels parched and raw like he's been crawling the desert for days. He goes downstairs for a glass of water, and it's so cold it burns, but he can't stop gulping it down until the glass is empty. His head goes fuzzy for a moment, and he has to brace himself against the kitchen island to keep himself vertical.

Jesse manages to climb the stairs and fall back into bed. His hand reaches out blindly and wraps its fingers around his phone. He turns on the screen, stares in disbelief at the date and time. It's not morning; Jesse slept into the next fucking _night_—over 24 hours—which really isn't that bad considering he'd been awake for about four days straight. Meth's a hell of a drug.

Tuco had said something about messages that Walt left Jesse, and Jesse's honestly a little curious. "Heart-warming" had been the word Tuco used, which is absolutely not a word Jesse would associate with Walter White.

He listens to the first one dated four days ago: "Jesse, it's me. You're being an idiot. I understand that you're mad at me, but is it really worth jeopardizing your job and your future over a silly argument? Just—just call me back and we can talk about this, okay?"

The corner of Jesse's mouth pulls into a half-smile. Typical Walt.

He toggles the next message: "Jesse, hi, it's me again. I just—look, avoiding me is just immature, you know that, right? We're not going to solve anything with you hiding out like this. Wherever you are, just...talk to me, please?"

Jesse hears something new in Walt's voice, something that sounds a lot like desperation, and it makes his insides twist into a confused knot.

The third message stuns him like a body blow: "Jesse, it's been three days. I'm worried about you. Just...give me any sign at all that you're out there. Even if you call or text to tell me I'm an asshole—I'd certainly deserve it. I just—I care about you so much, and I don't want to lose you. I never had much control of my life before you walked into it again, so maybe I hold on too tightly. Or maybe you're right and I'm just an asshole. But please...at least give me a chance to say goodbye. I love you, Jesse."

Jesse doesn't know what to focus on first: the obvious fear and panic laced in Walt's voice, the way he's owning up to being a total dick, or the fact that he actually said he loves Jesse. Walt _loves_ Jesse. Holy shit. This is huge.

He stares at his phone for a minute or two, lost in the dizzy whirl of his thoughts. He listens to the message again, as if he could have imagined those last four words. But they're there, as real as ever. Jesse tries to put his thoughts in order but ends up playing the voicemail again. He gets stuck in a bit of a feedback loop, each listen knocking his world off its axis again and again, and his brain tells him the only way to fix it is to listen again.

After the seventh time, Jesse's shaky hands find "Mr. White" in his contact list and dial. "Hey, we should—we should probably talk."


	19. Chapter 19

_**(So, we've finally reached the end. Huge thanks to everyone's who's been reading. I wish I could personally give you all hugs and delicious cookies; you're all wonderful, lovely people. )**_

* * *

Walt shows up about ten minutes later, lingering in the doorway as if he's waiting for permission to come inside the bedroom, like he doesn't belong here anymore. "It's cool, just come in," Jesse says, and Walt does as he's told. Jesse sits up, pats the empty space on the bed. Walt sits beside him, looking like he's trying very hard not to feel like a stranger.

"How are you feeling?" Walt asks.

Jesse gives a non-committal shrug. "I'll be fine." He stares at his hands in his lap, because he doesn't know how to look at Walt anymore knowing the things that he knows.

"I was worried about you, you know," Walt says. "I don't like it when you don't talk to me."

"It wasn't on purpose. If I woke up sooner, I would have called you."

That seems to make Walt feel marginally better, because he's not frowning as much anymore.

"So, hey, thanks for saving my ass," Jesse says with a lilt of a smile.

Walt smiles back. "It was a group effort."

"Yeah, well, I feel like you had a lot to do with the really awesome parts." Jesse chuckles. "That was dope, by the way, sending me that coded message."

"I knew you would figure it out," Walt says with pride, and Jesse beams, but his expression wilts when he remembers one of the reasons he called Walt here.

"I have to tell you this, because it wouldn't be fair if I kept it from you." Jesse rubs his arm, just so he has something to do with his hands, and Walt lays his palm over Jesse's thigh as silent encouragement. Jesse wets his mouth. "I took a hit of crystal while I was down there." He tries so hard not to wince at that, at his own impulsiveness, but he can hear it in his own voice. "They made me—thought it would make me do better—but still, it was—it was my fault."

Walt's shaking his head before Jesse's even finished talking, and Jesse can't breathe, because there's no way Walt could blame him for this, not after all that's happened. But Walt simply says, "It's not your fault, Jesse," and it sounds just as sincere as when he'd heard it from Mike.

Jesse forces himself to look at Walt, and his heart clenches at the sincerity and understanding on the man's face. Jesse doesn't know how to respond to that. Walt wraps an arm around Jesse's shoulders and brings him in close, tucks Jesse up against him. "It's not your fault," he says again.

Jesse lays his head on Walt's shoulder, blinks back the tears pooling in his eyes. "Did you really put that MSG crap in my sugar or was that a load of bullshit?"

Walt swallows and says, "I did, and I'm sorry." His hand rubs Jesse's back in soft, slow circles. "But it kills me to see what happened to you because of my choices. You shouldn't have suffered because of something I did. I'm going to spend a very long time making all of this up to you."

Jesse wants to be angry with him, but Walt had the perfect opportunity to lie here yet he didn't take it. Walt chose to be honest with him, and Jesse, no matter how pissed he might be, can at least respect that. "Well, hey, if it'd ease your conscience or whatever I can kick the crap out of you. Y'know, to even the score."

Walt chuckles and squeezes him tighter. "Not in the face though. People would ask questions."

Jesse smiles. "Maybe I'll take you up on that, old man." Walt buries his nose in Jesse's hair, breathes him in. Jesse lets their little moment run its course before he says, "You left me some pretty interesting voicemails." He looks up just in time to see the chagrin on Walt's face.

"Oh. You—you heard those?"

"I heard you say you love me," Jesse answers, like that's the only part that matters.

Walt goes worryingly silent for a moment, then he nods and says, "I do."

Jesse can't ignore the way his heart leaps into his throat at that, or how it makes him feel like he's drowning and soaring all at once. "Then you gotta stop with the bullshit, alright?"

Walt's shoulders slump in what looks like defeat.

"I get that you're jealous, okay? I totally get it, but you can't keep screwin' me around like this and expect me to be cool with it." It's honest in a way that's new for him, and he bites down on the urge to pull the words back. "If I bounce, I bounce, but it has to be because I want to, not 'cause you forced me, y'know?"

Walt sighs, and he sounds so fucking tired, like he's given all he has and doesn't think it's enough. "Jesse, are you sure this is what you want? The amount of sacrifice on your part just to be with me... You deserve so much better, so much more."

Jesse curls his fingers around Walt's wrist in a way that he hopes is reassuring, just a touch to let Walt know he's not going anywhere. "I deserve what I want. And I want you." Jesse thinks about kissing him, but the weight of his words needs to hang in the air, and jumping into that kind of intimacy would only cheapen things; Walt has to understand that this isn't just about lust or physical attraction.

"You need someone to keep you young," Walt says thickly.

"No, _you_ do. I need an old man with a stick up his ass." Jesse grins, flashes that soft smile that turns Walt to putty in his hands.

Walt's frown loses its edge, as if Jesse's charm is working, but he still finds something to argue with. "You want a family."

"And you're gonna have a baby any day now." Jesse rethinks the phrasing of that sentence. "Okay, you're not gonna actually _have_ a baby, but you know. That could be something I'm involved in, if you want." Jesse takes Walt's silence as something wrong, shakes his head. "Or—or not. I mean, it's up to you. The point is you're not taking anything away from me." Walt laces his fingers with Jesse's own. "But I can't deal with this if you do all this weird, controlling bullshit to try and keep me. I'm yours if you want me, but you have to do it right."

Walt's hand moves from Jesse's spine to the back of his neck, hot and weighty on his skin. Jesse sort of leans into it, because he's missed this, and Walt is open and honest enough here that it doesn't feel like manipulation. Walt brings his other hand up to Jesse's face, then he's kissing him, soft and slow and careful, like he's not sure he's allowed to do this anymore. But Jesse kisses him back, mouth hard and fierce against Walt's own, and Walt shoves a hand through Jesse's hair. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Walt breathes around the kiss, like he means it, and Jesse gets his hands full of Walt's shirt and tugs them together until their mouths are no longer their own.

Walt pushes his hands underneath Jesse's t-shirt, thumbs finding his nipples, and Jesse can't help it, he whimpers. Jesse feels the scrape of Walt's beard across the line of his jaw and down his neck. Walt licks at the hollow of Jesse's throat, fingers curled around the edges of his shirt. Jesse makes a noise that's supposed to be encouraging, and Walt pulls Jesse's shirt over his head before kissing his chest, mouth opening around his nipples. Then there are teeth, and fingers rubbing and tweaking, and Jesse shoves forward like it's not enough. "God, Mr. White, just—" He doesn't know what he wants, but Walt is pushing Jesse's knees apart and dragging his boxers off, kneeling at Jesse's feet, and, oh, God, if this is going where Jesse thinks it is he might die.

Walt kisses the inside of Jesse's thighs like he has all the time in the world, like his dick isn't as hard as a towel rack already. Jesse reaches to touch himself, but Walt catches his wrist and holds it captive while his mouth continues sucking kisses into Jesse's inner thighs. "Let me," Walt breathes hot over Jesse's skin, and Jesse doesn't even care what the rest of that sentence is; he's going to let Walt do whatever the hell he wants.

Jesse whimpers and digs his fingers into the sheets. He can feel Walt's heated breath between his legs and hands wrapped around his thighs, and Jesse bites his lip, because he is _not_ going to force Walt to suck his cock, but every thought in his head crumbles into dust when Walt takes him in anyway, hot and slippery around his dick. Jesse chokes on a strangled noise of disbelief, hands tight and twisting in the sheets as he squirms under Walt's mouth.

Walt's not even that good at this, but Jesse can't help the way his nerves clench and shudder when Walt's tongue glides down the underside of his dick, or when he sucks at the head and makes Jesse shove in deeper. "Jesus, Mr. White," Jesse manages, shaky and helpless, hands sliding over Walt's head, because he can feel Walt's beard against his balls, making him jerk his hips up into the scrape of it, and this is _so_ much better than he ever imagined. It's all heat and suction and sandpaper, and he can't even handle the sight of Walt on his knees letting Jesse fuck his mouth. He has to lie back on the mattress and stare up at the ceiling, because it's just too much.

Walt hums around him, a quiet rumble that Jesse feels in his dick, and Jesse moans out something loud and pathetic, legs squirming and seeking purchase over Walt's shoulders. He can feel the last thread of his orgasm start to unravel, and since Walt's never done this before he thinks he should warn him. Jesse chokes out, "I'm gonna—" before Walt lets him slip free to murmur, "Good, I want to see it," against his cock.

Jesse doesn't have time to think about how fucking hot that is, because Walt closes his mouth over the head of Jesse's dick and sucks him slow and easy, watching him shudder and squirm until Jesse shakes apart beneath him, swearing low in his throat and dragging his nails over Walt's scalp as he comes. Walt swallows around him, sloppy and unpracticed, as Jesse's hips grind into his mouth, pushing all the way in. "Oh God, oh God, shit, Mr. White, fuck, fuck," Jesse pants through the comedown while Walt strokes his tongue down the length of him, beard dragging over too-sensitive skin in a way that's shivery-good.

Jesse's groaning like he's dying, flat on his back with his eyes squeezed shut, so he doesn't see Walt get to his feet, just feels the absence of a hot mouth around his dick. The mattress jiggles when Walt drops down beside Jesse, and Jesse turns his head and pries his eyes open just in time for Walt to drag him in and kiss him.

"Whoa, whoa, hey—you can't just do that and act like it wasn't fuckin' awesome," Jesse pants around Walt's mouth, which tastes slippery and bitter from the jizzapalooza about ten seconds ago. "We need to talk about that."

Walt looks confused. "So talk."

Jesse gapes at him, gestures vaguely in the direction of his dick and Walt's mouth. "Why did you—? Did you get swapped out with an alternate universe clone while I was at Vamonos? You got the goatee goin' on there, so maybe..." He pokes at Walt's beard with a shaky finger. Walt's expression twitches into something that might be considered a smile. "I mean, the Mr. White I knew, like, a week ago would never have done that. So, what's the deal?" Jesse realizes it's kind of shitty etiquette to argue with someone who just gave you a fantastic blowjob, but he thinks this really needs to be addressed.

Walt lifts an eyebrow, puts on his incredulous teacher face. "There is no 'deal.'" Jesse waits for him to say more, because there _has_ to be more. Walt sighs. "You're not gonna make me say it again, are you?"

"Say what?"

"That I love you," Walt mumbles, sounding like a kid forced to apologize for something he didn't do.

Jesse chuckles. At least Walt's still as emotionally constipated as ever. "Yeah, wow, that's a great delivery. I totally buy that. Maybe next time try not sounding like you're passing a kidney stone."

Walt frowns at the hyperbole. "You said if I want you I have to do it right. So I'm trying. I'm going to try—in all the ways I know how—to show you that I care about you, Jesse."

And just like that, Jesse understands, and he starts laughing. "Oh my God."

"What?"

"I totally get it now!" Jesse grins. "You're my bitch."

Walt stares at him, open-mouthed. "No. What—? How—? No!" But he's denying it with the same veneer of shame that's common to everything Walt's uncomfortable admitting, and Jesse knows he's caught him.

"You totally are! I made you my bitch!"

"God, don't say it out loud," Walt grumbles, looking away. Jesse's never going to get over this. This is going to be hilarious forever, and Walt's offended irritation makes it so much sweeter.

"I have to tell Mike," Jesse says, grabbing his phone off of the night table.

"No, you don't!" Walt reaches for the phone, but Jesse's too quick, snatching it away. Walt doesn't try to take it from him again, just growls out, "Jesse Pinkman, don't you dare tell another living soul about this."

But Jesse's already typing. "Or what, you'll spank me?" He looks up at Walt, bites his lip.

Walt groans. "You'd probably enjoy that."

"I wouldn't be the only one."

Walt scowls, but he doesn't argue with that. After a moment he says, "Tell Mike I want my hundred dollars back."

"What?"

"Just tell him."

Jesse does as he's asked, finishes typing and sends the message off to Mike. He's grinning so hard his face hurts when he sets the phone on the table, because Walt's clearly not finding any of this funny in the slightest. He crawls over to Walt and gets his arms around him. "Would it make you feel better if I said I love you too?"

Jesse knows the answer to that question is a big fat yes, but he thinks by allowing himself to be vulnerable Walt might feel a little less embarrassed about his own emotions.

Walt pouts, but Jesse can tell he's warming to the idea. "Maybe."

"I love you too, you big grump."

Walt hesitates for a moment, then he's kissing him, mouth vicious over Jesse's own. Jesse tugs Walt down on top of him, hooks his legs around Walt's hips and digs his heels into the small of his back. He can feel Walt hard against him and the way Walt casually grinds into him to alleviate the ache.

Jesse plucks open the buttons on Walt's shirt, sticks a hand inside. His skin is warm and soft and feels like home. Jesse's laying kisses over Walt's collarbone when his phone trills. He grabs the device off of the table and gets Mike's reply pulled up. "Mike says 'Walter, you greedy bastard.'" Jesse laughs, then loses it completely when he sees Walt's furious expression. He can't remember the last time he laughed like this. It feels good, almost freeing.

"What's he talkin' about?" Jesse asks when he can catch his breath.

"We made a bet," Walt grumbles.

"And I guess you lost big-time, huh?"

Walt cocks his head and pulls a face that makes Jesse feel like the single greatest thing in Walt's eyes. "Actually, I think I won." He kisses Jesse again, while he can, before Jesse's breaking away to laugh at him some more.

"How's that work? You lost a hundred bucks."

Walt says, "I gained something more valuable," in that warm, honey-smooth voice that makes Jesse's heart stutter.

"Like what?"

His fingers climb the lattice of Jesse's ribs, hands pulling him closer. "Like you."

Jesse grins. "Wow, that's corny as hell, Mr. White." He just _knows_ that sickeningly-saccharine shit like this is going to be a thing in their relationship, but it's not like Jesse's opposed to that.

Walt's fingers dig in a little at Jesse's waist. "I have about fifty text messages from you that prove you're just as corny."

"You kept all of those?" Jesse asks, huffing amusement. "No, wait, of course you did."

"Don't read too much into it. I don't know how to delete messages," Walt says, his thumbs stroking over Jesse's sides, and that's definitely a joke, because Jesse's seen him delete texts before.

"You got a secret heart of gold in there, huh?" Jesse smiles, lays a hand over Walt's chest. "Awesome. Yo, get it? A-U-some. Like gold?"

Walt shuts his eyes like that joke physically hurt him.

"Don't even groan. You love my shitty jokes," Jesse says.

"At least you have enough self-awareness to admit that they're bad." Walt's fingers trail along the curve of Jesse's spine. It's like Walt can't stop touching him since they found each other again, and Jesse wouldn't change that for anything; no one has ever needed or wanted him like this.

Jesse hears his stomach growl just as Walt's kissing the hollow of his throat. Walt must have heard it too, because he pulls away and lifts an eyebrow. "Did you eat when Mike brought you home?"

Jesse shakes his head. "It's been, like, four days. Or is it five? Shit, I dunno."

"How are you even alive?"

"Hey, I got to eat some of the stuff I made."

Walt rolls his eyes. "A diet of cookies and sweets. Oh, that's nutritious."

"Alright, then as my bitch, your first task is to go downstairs and order me a pizza." Jesse smiles, and Walt's frown softens. He loves that he can do that; it's like a superpower. As Walt's moving off of the bed, Jesse adds, "No, wait, get two. And dipping sticks—and maybe some of those honey barbecue wings."

Walt gives him a judgemental look.

"Fuck you, try goin' four or five days without food and see if you ain't hungry." Jesse sits up, hooks his fingers in Walt's belt loops to haul him closer. "When you get back, we'll see if I can get you off in thirty minutes or less."

Walt laughs and actually ruffles Jesse's hair before he leaves the room. Jesse flops down on the bed and thinks that, for once, his life is actually really awesome.


End file.
